Iran - A History
Iran - A History
praise for
A History of Iran
“A fine discussion of Iranian progress and a top pick for any library
strong in Middle Eastern studies.” —Midwest Book Review
“At this time above all, we need a deeply informed, engagingly written
history of the nation from Cyrus to Khomeini and beyond. Axworthy
does the job with balance and aplomb. Readers who fear that they may
shrink in confusion will warm to his human-scale portrait of a self-
renewing culture that, as with its world-beating cinema today, shows
‘enduring greatness’ and ‘creative power.’” —Belfast Telegraph
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A History of
Michael Axworthy
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DS272.A94 2008
955—dc22
2007049157
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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To my wife Sally
Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan
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Contents
Preface xi
Acknowledgments xv
vii
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viii Contents
Epilogue 295
Notes 303
Select Bibliography 323
Index 333
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. . . However, when I began to consider the reasons for these opinions, all
these reasons given for the magnificence of human nature failed to con-
vince me: that man is the intermediary between creatures, close to the
gods, master of all the lower creatures, with the sharpness of his senses, the
acuity of his reason, and the brilliance of his intelligence, the interpreter of
nature, the nodal point between eternity and time, and, as the Persians
say, the intimate bond or marriage song of the world, just a little lower
than angels, as David tells us. I concede these are magnificent reasons, but
they do not seem to go to the heart of the matter. . . .
. . . Euanthes the Persian . . . writes that man has no inborn, proper form,
but that many things that humans resemble are outside and foreign to
them: “Man is multitudinous, varied, and ever changing.” Why do I em-
phasize this? Considering that we are born with this condition, that is,
that we can become whatever we choose to become, we need to understand
that we must take earnest care about this, so that it will never be said to
our disadvantage that we were born to a privileged position but failed to
realize it and became animals and senseless beasts. . . . Above all, we
should not make that freedom of choice God gave us into something harm-
ful, for it was intended to be to our advantage. Let a holy ambition enter
into our souls; let us not be content with mediocrity, but rather strive after
the highest and expend all our strength in achieving it.
—Pico della Mirandola, Oration on the Dignity of Man
(translated by Richard Hooker)
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Preface
The Remarkable Resilience of the Idea of Iran
xi
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xii Preface
Preface xiii
xiv Preface
Iran, still prefer the term Persia because it retains the ancient, often happier,
connotations. My practice is to use both terms, but with a preference for Iran
when dealing with the period after 1935, and for Persia for the preceding cen-
turies, when it was the word used for the country by English-speakers. Irani-
ans themselves call their language Farsi because it originated in the Iranian
dialect spoken in Fars province. The language is now spoken not just in Iran
but also extensively in Tajikistan; in Afghanistan (as the Dari dialect); and it
has had a strong influence on the Urdu language spoken in Pakistan and
northern India. In the earlier chapters of this book, the term Iranian is used
also to cover the non-Persian peoples and languages of the wider region, like
the Parthians, Sogdians, and Medes.
There are many books available on contemporary Iran, and on earlier
periods of Iranian history. Several cover the whole history of Iran from the
earliest times—notably the monumental seven-volume Cambridge History of
Iran, and the huge project of the Encyclopedia Iranica (the latter is as yet in-
complete but nonetheless incomparable for the range and depth of knowl-
edge of Iranian history it pulls together—and much more than history).
This book does not attempt to compete with those, but tries rather to pres-
ent an introduction to the history of Iran for a general readership, assuming
little or no prior knowledge. In addition it aims to explain some of the para-
doxes and contradictions through the history—probably the only way that
they can be properly understood. And beyond that—especially in Chapter
3, which explores some of the treasury of classical Persian poetry—it at-
tempts to give the beginnings of an insight into the way the intellectual and
literary culture of Iran developed, and has had a wider influence, not just in
the Middle East, Central Asia, and India, but throughout the world.
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Acknowledgments
The title of this book, if not the idea of it altogether, is unusual in that it
originated at a public event—a panel discussion in front of an invited au-
dience, arranged to inaugurate the Forgotten Empire exhibition at the
British Museum in the autumn of 2005. The panel was chaired by the
journalist Jon Snow and included the Iranian ambassador, Seyyed Mo-
hammad Hossein Adeli (recalled to Tehran shortly afterward), Haleh Af-
shar of York University, Ali Ansari from the University of St. Andrews,
and Christopher de Bellaigue, author of In the Rose Garden of the Martyrs.
Neil MacGregor, the director of the British Museum, made an introduc-
tory presentation.
The discussion ranged widely but centered on the question of continuity
in Iranian history, and on the enduring power of the idea of Iran, the influ-
ence of its literary and court culture on the other powers and linguistic cul-
tures of the region, and its resilience over millennia despite war, invasion,
religious change, and revolution. Then Jon Snow asked the audience to put
questions to the panel. I asked a question toward the end—to the effect that
if, as members of the panel had suggested, the center of Iranian culture had
moved at different times from Fars in southern Iran to Mesopotamia, to
Khorasan in the northeast and Central Asia, and to what is now called
Azerbaijan in the northwest; and given its strong influence far beyond the
land of Iran itself, into Abbasid Baghdad and Ottoman Turkey, for example,
on the one side and into Central Asia and Moghul India on the other; then
xv
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xvi Acknowledgments
perhaps we should set aside our usual categories of nationhood and imperial
culture and think instead of Iran as an Empire of the Mind? The panel
seemed to like this suggestion, and someone in the audience called out that
it would make a good book. So, here it is.
I have benefited greatly from the generous help and advice of a number
of people, especially Baqer Moin, Ali Ansari, Willem Floor, Sajjad Rizvi,
Lenny Lewisohn, Hashem Ahmadzadeh, Chris Rundle, Touraj Daryaee,
Michael Grenfell, Peter Melville, Duncan Head, Haideh Sahim, and
Mahdi Dasht-Bozorgi, Gary Sick, Luciano Zaccara, Rudi Matthee, Anna
Paaso, and one anonymous reviewer, who read all or part of it in advance of
publication; but also my father Ifor Axworthy and my sister Janet Axwor-
thy, Peter Avery, Frances Cloud, Gordon Nechvatal, Shaghayegh Azimi,
Paul Luft, and Paul Auchterlonie, as well as the other staff at the University
Library in Exeter, and at the London Library. I should also thank my other
friends and colleagues in the Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies in Ex-
eter for their help and support, especially Tim Niblock, Rasheed El-Enany,
Gareth Stansfield, James Onley, and Rob Gleave, as well as Michael Dwyer
(simply the best editor it has been my good fortune to encounter), Maria
Petalidou, and their colleagues at Hurst; Lara Heimert at Basic Books; Jim
Morgan; my agent Georgina Capel; and (not just last but not least this
time) my wife Sally for her unfailing cheerfulness and encouragement.
The author and publisher wish to thank the following for kindly agreeing
to reproduce copyrighted material included in this book. Penguin Books
Ltd., for permission to reproduce the quotations from Arthur Koestler’s
Darkness at Noon, © Penguin Books, 1969, and from The Conference of the
Birds, by Farid al-Din Attar, translated by A. Darbandi and D. Davis, © Pen-
guin Classics, 1984; Ibex Publishers, for permission to reproduce the poem
on p. 116 from A Thousand Years of Persian Rubaiyat, translated by Reza
Saberi, © Ibex Publishers, 2000; The University of Washington Press for
permission to reproduce the excerpt from The Tragedy of Sohrab and Rostam,
translated by J. W. Clinton, © The University of Washington Press, 1996.
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Acknowledgments xvii
Transliteration
The transliteration of names and other terms from Persian into English is
an awkward problem, and it is not possible to be fully consistent without
producing text that will sometimes look odd. As with my previous book, on
Nader Shah, I have used a transliteration scheme that leans toward modern
Iranian pronunciation, because I did not want to write a book on Iranian
history in which the names and places would read oddly to Iranians. But
there are inconsistencies, notably over the transliteration of names that have
had a life of their own in Western writing—Isfahan, Fatima, Sultan, mullah,
for example. Other, less justifiable inconsistencies, of which there will
doubtless be some, are in all cases my fault rather than that of those who
tried to advise me on the manuscript in its different stages of completion.
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1
Origins
Zoroaster, the Achaemenids, and the Greeks
The history of Iran starts with a question: Who are the Iranians? The ques-
tion concerns not just the origins of Iran, but echoes, in one form or another,
in the history of the country and its people down to the present day.
The Iranians were one branch of the Indo-European family of peoples
who moved out of what are today the Russian steppes to settle in Europe,
Iran, Central Asia, and northern India, in a series of migrations and inva-
sions in the latter part of the second millennium bc. This explains the close
relationship between the Persian language and other Indo-European lan-
guages—particularly Sanskrit and Latin, but also modern languages like
Hindi, German, and English. Any speaker of a European language who is
learning Persian soon encounters a series of familiar words: pedar (father,
Latin pater); dokhtar (daughter, girl, German tochter); mordan (to die, Latin
mortuus, French mourir, le mort); nam (name); dar (door); and perhaps the
most familiar of all, the first-person present and singular of the verb to be,
1
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2 A History of Iran
Origins 3
language and intermarried with them. And probably ever since that time,
down to the present day, the rulers of Iran have ruled over at least some non-
Iranian peoples. From the very beginning then, the Idea of Iran was as much
about culture and language—in all their complex patterns—as about race
or territory.
From the beginning there was always a division (albeit a fuzzy one) be-
tween Iran’s nomadic or semi-nomadic peoples and its settled, crop-growing
agriculturists. Iran is a land of great contrasts in climate and geography, and
in addition to areas of productive agricultural land (expanded by ingenious
use of irrigation from groundwater), there are more extensive areas of rugged
mountain and semi-desert, worthless for crops but suitable for grazing, even
if only for a limited period each year. Over these lands the nomads moved
their herds. The early Iranians seem to have herded cattle in particular.
In the pre-modern world, pastoralist nomads had many advantages over
settled peasant farmers. Their wealth was their livestock, which meant their
wealth was movable and they could escape from threats of violence with lit-
tle loss. Other nomads might attack them, of course, but peasant farmers
were always much more vulnerable. If threatened with violence at harvest
time, the farmers stood to lose the accumulated value of a full year’s work
and be left destitute. In peaceful times nomads were happy to trade meat
and wool with the peasants in exchange for grains and other crops, but the
nomads always had the option of adding direct coercion to purely eco-
nomic bargaining. Nomads have had the upper hand from the time the
Indo-European pastoralist Iranians first entered the Iranian plateau, right
up to the twentieth century.
From such circumstances a system of tribute—what the twentieth-century
Mafia would call protection—developed. The peasants paid a portion of
their harvest in order to be left alone. From another perspective, augmented
with a bit of presentational subtlety and tradition, this system could be called
government taxation. Most of the historical rulers of Iran originated from the
nomadic tribes (including from non-Iranian nomads who arrived in later
waves of migration), and animosity between the nomads and the settled pop-
ulation has persisted into modern times. The settled population (particularly
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4 A History of Iran
later, when towns and cities developed) regarded themselves as more civi-
lized, less violent, and less crude. But the nomads saw the settled population
as soft and devious, while considering themselves, by contrast, as hardy,
tough, and self-reliant, exemplifying a kind of rugged honesty. There would
have been elements of truth in both caricatures, but the attitudes of the early
Iranian elites partook especially of the latter.
Origins 5
tar; and a king of the Persians called Achaemenes, who the Assyrians called
Hakhamanish. By 700 bc the Medes—with the help of Scythian tribes—
had established an independent state, which later grew to become the first
Iranian Empire. In 612 bc the Medes destroyed the Assyrian capital, Nin-
eveh (adjacent to modern Mosul, on the Tigris). At its height the Median
Empire stretched from Asia Minor to the Hindu Kush, and south to the
Persian Gulf, ruling the Persians as vassals as well as many other subject
peoples.
6 A History of Iran
Origins 7
represented by the new religion. At the more mundane level the demons also
lay behind diseases of people and animals, bad weather, and other natural
disasters.
At the center of Zoroaster’s theology was the opposition between Ahura
Mazda, the creator-god of truth and light, and Ahriman, the embodiment of
lies, darkness, and evil.6 This dualism became a persistent theme in Iranian
thought for centuries. Modern Zoroastrianism is much more strongly
monotheistic, and to make this distinction more explicit many scholars refer
to the religion in this early stage as Mazdaism. Other pre-existing deities
were incorporated into the Mazdaean religious structure as angels or
archangels—notably Mithra, a sun god, and Anahita, a goddess of streams
and rivers. Six Immortal archangels (the Amesha Spenta) embodied animal
life, plant life, metals and minerals, earth, fire, and water. The names of sev-
eral of these archangels—for example Bahman, Ordibehesht, Khordad—
survive as months in the modern Iranian calendar, even under the Islamic
republic. Ahura Mazda himself personified air, and in origin paralleled the
Greek Zeus, as a sky-god.
The modern Persian month Bahman is named after the Mazdaean
archangel Vohu Manu—the second in rank after Ahura Mazda, character-
ized as Good Purpose and identified with the cattle who were the second
class of beings to be created by Ahura Mazda, after man himself. Part of the
creation myth in Zoroastrianism holds that after all was created good by
Ahura Mazda, the evil spirit Ahriman (accompanied by six evil spirits
matching the six Immortals) assaulted creation, murdering the first man,
killing the sacred bull Vohu Manu, and polluting the pure elements of water
and fire. The importance of cattle to the nomadic early Iranians is shown by
the frequent appearance of bulls and cattle in sculpture and iconography
from the Achaemenid period—but many of these images may have a more
specific religious significance, referring to Vohu Manu.
The name Ahura Mazda means Lord of Wisdom, or Wise Lord. The
dualism went a long way toward resolving the problem of evil that presents
such difficulties for the monotheistic religions (the origin of evil in the
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8 A History of Iran
world was Ahriman, against whom Ahura Mazda struggled for supremacy)
and at least initially permitted a strong attachment to the ideas of free will
(arising out of the necessity of human beings choosing between good and
evil), goodness emerging in good actions, judgment after death, and heaven
and hell. Some scholars have suggested that within a few centuries (but be-
fore 600 bc) Mazdaism developed a theory of a Messiah—the Saoshyant,
who would be born miraculously at the end of time from a virgin mother
and the seed of Zoroaster himself.7 But the dualism implied other difficul-
ties, which emerged later. One was how Ahura Mazda and Ahriman them-
selves came into existence. To explain this, some later followers of the
Iranian religion believed in a creator-god, Zurvan (identified with Time or
Fate), who prayed for a son and was rewarded with twins. The twins became
Ahura Mazda and Ahriman. This branch of Mazdaism has been called
Zurvanism.
It was a characteristic of the new religion that philosophical concepts or
categories became personified as heavenly beings or entities—indeed these
seem to have proliferated, a little like characters in John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s
Progress. One example is the idea of the daena. According to one later text, a
beautiful maiden appeared to the soul of a just man after his death. She was
the personification of all the good works he had done in life, and she said to
him,
For when, in the world, you saw someone sacrificing to the demon, you in-
stead started adoring God; and when you saw someone carrying out violence
and robbery and afflicting and despising good men and gathering in their sub-
stance with evil actions, you instead avoided treating creatures with violence
and robbery; you took care of the just and welcomed them and gave them
lodgings and gifts. Whether your wealth came from near or from afar, it was
honorably acquired. And when you saw people give false judgments and al-
lowed themselves to be corrupted with money and commit perjury, you in-
stead undertook to tell the truth and speak righteously. I am your righteous
thoughts, your righteous words, your righteous actions, thought, spoken, done
by you.8
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Origins 9
Elsewhere the word daena was used to signify religion itself. Another ex-
ample of personification in Mazdaism is the identification of five separate
entities belonging to each human being—not just body, soul, and spirit, but
also adhvenak and fravashi. Adhvenak, the heavenly prototype for each hu-
man being, was associated with semen and regeneration. The fravashi were
more active, associated with the strength of heroes, the protection of the liv-
ing in life (like guardian angels), and the collection of souls after death
(rather like the Valkyries in Germanic mythology). These and other person-
ifications prefigure the role of angels in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, but
also have obvious connections to the idea of forms in Platonism. Many
scholars believe Plato was strongly influenced by Mazdaism.
Paralleling Ahura Mazda and Ahriman were two principles, sometimes
translated as good and evil but more precisely as Truth and the Lie—asha
and druj. These terms recur insistently in the Avestan texts, along with the
concept of justice. They also show up in surviving inscriptions (in old Per-
sian, the words became arta and drauga) and in Western classical texts de-
scribing Iran or events in Iran. In the centuries after Zoroaster, there were
different currents and separate sects within the Mazdaean tradition, repre-
senting both innovations and survivals from the pre-Zoroastrian religions,
as well as various compromises between them. The priestly class, the Magi
(listed by Herodotus as a distinct tribe within the Medes) survived from be-
fore the time of Zoroaster. As all priests do, they interpreted and adapted
doctrine and ritual to suit their own purposes, while remaining remarkably
faithful to the central oral tradition.
The history of the relationship between Iranians and Jews is almost as old
as the history of Iran itself. After the conquest of the northern Kingdom of
Israel by the Assyrians around 720 bc, large numbers of Jews were removed
to Media, among other places, setting up long-lived Jewish communities, no-
tably in Ecbatana/Hamadan. A second wave of deportations, this time to
Babylonian territory, took place in the 590s and 580s bc under Nebuchad-
nezzar, who destroyed the temple of Solomon in 586. Babylon came under
Persian control in the 530s, and thereafter many of the Jews eventually re-
turned home. Some scholars believe that Judaism changed significantly
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10 A History of Iran
under Mazdaean influence in the period of the Babylonian exile (the logical
corollary, the possibility of Judaic influence on Mazdaism, seems to have re-
ceived less attention). The trauma of the Babylonian exile was never forgot-
ten, and it marked a watershed in Jewish history in several ways. One of the
leaders of the return from Babylon, the scribe Ezra, is believed to have been
the first to write down the books of the Torah (the first five books of the
Bible, the books of Moses). He did so in a new script different from the one
used by the Jews before the exile. This is the Hebrew script used ever since.
Post-exile Judaism laid greater emphasis on adherence to the Torah, and on
monotheism.
For hundreds of years thereafter, first under the Persian Empire and later
under Hellenistic rulers, diaspora Jewish and Mazdaean religious communi-
ties lived adjacent to one another in cities all over the Middle East.9 It seems
plain that many religious ideas became common currency, and the Qumran
scrolls (the Dead Sea scrolls) indicate some crossover of religious concepts
from Mazdaism.10 It is a controversial subject, and the relative obscurity of
Mazdaism and Zoroastrianism in Western scholarship until recent times
has helped to conceal the influence of Mazdaism on Judaism; but as further
work is done, the more significant it is likely to be found. Perhaps the
strongest indicator is the positive attitude of the Jewish texts toward the
Persians.
There are a number of contradictions between the later practice of
Zoroastrianism, as it has come down to us in the written scriptures, and the
apparent norms of the Mazdaean religion at this earliest stage. Many of the
problems are difficult to resolve. It is a complex picture. But the concepts of
heaven and hell, of free human choice between good and evil, of divine judg-
ment, of angels, of a single creator-god—all appear to have been genuine
early features of the religion, and all were hugely influential for religions that
originated later. Mazdaism was the first religion—in this part of the world,
at least—to move beyond cult and totemism to address moral and philo-
sophical problems with its theology, emphasizing personal choice and re-
sponsibility. In that limited sense, Nietzsche was right—Zoroaster was the
first creator of the moral world we live in. Also sprach Zarathustra.
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Origins 13
The way the pharaohs of Egypt celebrated their rule and their victories
was very similar to this, and although Hezekiah, the king of Jerusalem, ap-
pears on the Taylor Prism as a victim, some parts of the Bible describing the
Israelites and their God smiting their enemies do not read very differently,
either.
By contrast, another clay object, about 9 inches by 4 inches, also discov-
ered in the nineteenth century and covered in cuneiform script, tells a rather
different story. The Cyrus cylinder, now in the British Museum, was found
where it had been deliberately placed—under the foundations of the city
wall of Babylon. It has been described as a charter of human rights for the
ancient world, which is an exaggeration and a misrepresentation. But the
message of the cylinder, particularly when combined with what is known of
Cyrus’s religious policy from the books of Ezra and Isaiah, is nonetheless re-
markable. The kingly preamble from the cylinder is fairly conventional:
I am Cyrus, king of the world, great king, rightful king, king of Babylon, king
of Sumer and Akkad, king of the four quarters (of the earth), son of Camby-
ses, great king, king of Anshan, grandson of Cyrus, great king, king of An-
shan, descendant of Teispes, great king, king of Anshan, of a family that
always exercised kingship. . . .
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14 A History of Iran
When I entered Babylon as a friend and when I established the seat of the
government in the palace of the ruler under jubilation and rejoicing, Marduk,
the great lord, induced the magnanimous inhabitants of Babylon to love me,
and I was daily endeavouring to worship him. My numerous troops walked
around in Babylon in peace, I did not allow anybody to terrorize any place of
the country of Sumer and Akkad. I strove for peace in Babylon and in all his
other sacred cities . . .
and concludes:
As to the region . . . as far as Assur and Susa, Agade, Eshnunna, the towns of
Zamban, Me-Turnu, Der as well as the region of the Gutians, I returned to
these sanctuaries on the other side of the Tigris, the sanctuaries of which had
been ruins for a long time, the images which used to live therein and estab-
lished for them permanent sanctuaries. I also gathered all their former inhabi-
tants and returned to them their habitations. Furthermore, I resettled upon
the command of Marduk, the great lord, all the gods of Sumer and Akkad
whom Nabonidus had brought into Babylon to the anger of the lord of the
gods, unharmed, in their former chapels, the places that make them happy.12
Origins 15
temple in Jerusalem. For those acts they were accorded in the Jewish scrip-
tures a unique status among gentile monarchs.
The logic of statecraft alone might have suggested that it would be more
sustainable in the long run to let subjects conduct their own affairs and wor-
ship as they pleased. But that policy had to be acceptable to the Iranian elite,
including the priests—the Magi. Leaving aside the question of Cyrus’s per-
sonal beliefs, which remain unclear, it is reasonable to see in the policy some
of the spirit of moral earnestness and justice that pervaded the religion of
Zoroaster. The presence of those values in the background helps to explain
why the Cyrus cylinder is couched in such different terms from the mili-
taristic thunder and arrogance of Sennacherib. The old answer was terror
and a big stick, but the Persian Empire would be run in a more devolved,
permissive spirit. Once again, an encounter with complexity, acceptance of
that complexity, and a response. This was something new.
Unfortunately, according to Herodotus, Cyrus did not end his life as glo-
riously as he had lived it. Having conquered in the west, he turned to cam-
paign east of the Caspian. According to one account he was defeated and
killed in battle by Queen Tomyris of the Massagetae, another Iranian tribe
who fought mainly on horseback, like the Scythians.
The Massagetae are interesting because they appear to have maintained
some ancient Iranian customs that may shed light on the status of women in
Persian society under the Achaemenids. There are signs in Herodotus
(Book 1:216) that the Massagetae showed some features of a matrilineal,
polyandrous society, in which women might have a number of spouses or
sexual partners, but men only one. Patricia Crone has suggested that this
feature may resurface in men’s apparent holding of women in common as
practiced later by the Mazdakites in the fifth century ad, and by the Khor-
ramites after the Islamic conquest.13 Mazdaism certainly permitted a prac-
tice whereby an impotent man could give his wife temporarily to another in
order to obtain a child; it also sanctioned the marriage of close relatives. But
in general, Persian society seems to have leaned toward limiting the status of
women, following practices elsewhere in the Middle East. Royal and noble
women may have been able to own property in their own right—and even,
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16 A History of Iran
on occasion, to exert some political influence. But this seems to have been an
exception associated with high status rather than indicative of practices
prevalent in society more widely.14
Cyrus’s body was brought back to Persia, to Pasargadae, his capital, to
rest in a tomb there. That tomb, which can still be seen (though its contents
have long since disappeared), is massively simple rather than grandiose—a
sepulchre the size of a small house on a raised, stepped plinth. This tomb
burial has raised some questions about the religion of Cyrus and the other
Achaemenid kings. Many of his successors were placed in tombs of a differ-
ent type—rock tombs halfway up a cliff face. Tomb burial was anathema to
later Zoroastrians, who held it to be sacrilege to pollute the earth with dead
bodies. Instead they exposed the dead on so-called Towers of Silence, to be
consumed by birds and animals. Could the Achaemenid kings really have
been Zoroastrians if they permitted tomb burial?
Some have explained the inconsistency by suggesting that different
classes of Iranian society followed different beliefs—different religions, ef-
fectively. As we have seen, there probably was some considerable plurality of
belief within the broad flow of Mazdaism at this time. But it seems more
likely that the plurality was socially vertical rather than horizontal—a ques-
tion of geography and tribe rather than of social class. Perhaps an earlier,
pre-Zoroastrian tradition of burial still lingered and the elevated position of
all the royal tombs was a kind of compromise. Halfway between heaven and
earth—itself a strong metaphor. Around the tomb of Cyrus lay a paradise, a
garden watered by irrigation channels (our word paradise comes, via Greek,
from the Old Persian paradaida, meaning a walled garden). Magian priests
watched over the tomb and sacrificed a horse to Cyrus’s memory each
month.15
Cyrus had been a conqueror, but a conqueror with imagination and vi-
sion. He was at least as remarkable a man as that other conqueror, Alexan-
der, whose career marks the end of the Achaemenid period just as that of
Cyrus marks the beginning. Maybe as a youth Cyrus had a Mazdaean tutor
as remarkable as Aristotle, who taught Alexander.
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Origins 17
Religious Revolt
Cyrus was succeeded by his son Cambyses (Kambojiya), who extended the
empire by conquering Egypt, but in a short time gained a reputation for harsh-
ness. He died unexpectedly in 522 bc—by suicide, according to one source—
after he had been given news of a revolt in the empire’s Persian heartlands.
An account of what happened next appears on an extraordinary rock relief
carving at Bisitun, in western Iran, about twenty miles from Kermanshah,
above the main road to Hamadan. According to the text of the carving (exe-
cuted in Old Persian, Elamite, and Babylonian), the revolt was led by a Magi,
Gaumata, who claimed falsely to be Cambyses’s younger brother, Bardiya.
Herodotus gives a similar version, saying that Cambyses had murdered the
true Bardiya years earlier. The revolt led by Gaumata seems to have drawn
force from social and fiscal grievances, because one of his measures to gain
popularity was to order a three-year remission of taxes. Another was to end
military conscription.16 Pressure had built up over decades of costly foreign
wars under Cyrus and Cambyses. But Gaumata also showed strong religious
intolerance, destroying the temples of sects he did not approve of.
An Iranian revolution, led by a charismatic cleric, seizing power from an
oppressive monarch, asserting religious orthodoxy, attacking false believers,
and drawing support from economic grievances—how modern that sounds.
But within a few months, Gaumata was dead, killed by Darius (Daryavaush)
and a small group of Persian confederates—a killing that sounds more like
an assassination than anything else.
The carving at Bisitun was made at Darius’s orders and it presents his ver-
sion of events, as put together after he had made himself king and the revolt
had finally been crushed. The carving itself says that copies of the same text
were made and distributed throughout the empire. And what a revolt it had
been—Babylon revolted twice, and Darius declared that he fought nineteen
battles in a single year. It was really a series of revolts, affecting all but a few of
the eastern provinces of the empire. The Bisitun carving illustrates this by
showing a row of defeated captives, each representing a different people or
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18 A History of Iran
territory. Whatever the true nature of the rebellion and its origins, it was no
simple palace coup, affecting only a few members of the elite. It was just the
first of several religious revolutions, or attempted revolutions, in Iran’s his-
tory. And it was no pushover.
Bisitun was chosen for Darius’s grand rock-carving because it was a high
place, perhaps already associated with the sacred, close by where he and his
companions had killed Gaumata/Bardiya. The site at Bisitun is a museum of
Iranian history in itself. Aside from the Darius rock relief, there are caves that
had been used by Neanderthals forty thousand years earlier, and by many gen-
erations after them. Among other relics and monuments, there is a rock-carving
of a reclining Hercules from the Seleucid period, a Parthian carving depicting
fire worship, a Sassanian bridge, some remains of a building from the Mongol
period, a seventeenth-century caravanserai, and, not far away, some fortifications
apparently dating from the time of Nader Shah in the eighteenth century.
Many historians have been suspicious about the story of the false
Bardiya. The Bisitun carving is a contemporary source, but it is plainly a self-
serving account to justify Darius’s accession. It is confirmed by Herodotus
and other Greek writers, but they all wrote later and would naturally have
accepted the official version of events if other dissenting accounts had been
stamped out. Darius was not a natural successor to the throne. He was de-
scended from a junior branch of the Achaemenid royal family, and even in
that line he was not preeminent—his father was still living. Could a Magian
priest have successfully impersonated a royal prince some three or four years
after the real man’s death? Is it not rather suspect that Darius also discred-
ited other opponents by alleging that they were imposters?
If the story was a fabrication, Darius was certainly brazen in the presenta-
tion of his case. In the Bisitun inscriptions, the rebel leaders are called liar
kings, and Darius, appealing to religious feeling and Mazdaean beliefs about
arta and druj, declares,
Origins 19
and,
[. . .] Ahura Mazda brought me aid and the other gods who are, because I was
not disloyal, I was no follower of Falsehood, I was no evil-doer, neither I nor
my family, I acted according to righteousness, neither to the powerless nor to
the powerful, did I do wrong . . .
and again,
This is what I have done, by the grace of Ahura Mazda have I always acted.
Whosoever shall read this inscription hereafter, let that which I have done be
believed. You must not hold it to be lies.
The latter part of this text, though telescoped here from the original,
echoes the famous formula from Herodotus and other Greek writers, that
Persian youths were brought up to ride a horse, shoot a bow, and tell the
truth. Darius was pressing every button to stimulate the approval of his sub-
jects. Even if one doubts the story of Darius’s accession, the evidence from
Bisitun and his other inscriptions of his self-justification, and the use of reli-
gion by both sides in the intensive fighting that followed the death of Cam-
byses, nonetheless stands. It is a powerful testimony to the force of the
Mazdaean religion at this time. Even the suppressors of the religious revolu-
tion had to justify their actions in religious terms. Although Darius by the
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20 A History of Iran
end reigned supreme, the inscriptions give a strong sense that he himself was
nonetheless subject to a powerful structure of ideas about justice, truth and
lies, and right and wrong. that was distinctively Iranian—and Mazdaean.
May Ahura Mazda protect this land from hostile armies, from famine, and
from the Lie.
The motif of tribute and submission is also repeated from Bisitun. Row
upon row of figures representing subjects from all over the empire are shown
queuing up to present themselves, frozen forever in stone relief. The purpose
of the huge palace complex at Persepolis is not entirely clear. It may be that
it was intended as a place for celebrations and ceremonies at the time of the
spring equinox, the Persian New Year (Noruz—celebrated on and after
March 21 each year, today as then). The rows of tribute-bearers depicted in
the sculpture suggest that it may have been the place for annual demonstra-
tions of homage and loyalty from the provinces. Whatever the reason for the
grandeur of Persepolis, it was never the main, permanent capital of the em-
pire. That was at Susa, the old capital of Elam.
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Origins 21
This, again, shows the syncretism of the Persian regime. Cyrus had been
closely connected with the royal family of the Medes, and the Medes had a
privileged position with the Persians as partners at the head of the empire.
But Elam, too, was important and central, and not least for its language, as
used in administration and monumental inscriptions. This was an empire
that always preferred to flow around and absorb powerful rivals, rather than
to confront, batter into defeat, and force submission. The guiding principles
of Cyrus persisted under Darius and at least some later Achaemenid rulers.
Darius’s reign saw the Achaemenid Empire in effect re-founded. It could
have gone under altogether in the rebellions that followed the death of Cam-
byses. But Darius maintained Cyrus’s tradition of tolerance, permitting a
plurality of gods to be worshipped as before. He also maintained the related
principle of devolved government. The provinces were ruled by satraps, gov-
ernors who returned a tribute to the center but ruled as viceroys (two other
officials looked after military matters and fiscal administration in each
province, to avoid too much power being concentrated in any one pair of
hands). The satraps, who often inherited their offices from predecessors
within the same family, ruled their provinces according to pre-existing laws,
customs, and traditions. They were, in effect, provincial kings, while Darius
was king of kings (Shahanshah in modern Persian). The empire did not at-
tempt, as a matter of policy, to Persianize as the Roman Empire, for exam-
ple, later sought to Romanize.
The certainties of religion, the principle of sublime justice that they un-
derpinned, and the magnificent prestige of kingship—these were the bonds
that held together this otherwise diffuse constellation of peoples, languages,
and cultures. A complex empire was accepted as such, and was subjected to a
controlling principle. The system established by Darius worked, proved re-
silient, and endured.
Tablets discovered in excavations at Persepolis show the complexity and
administrative sophistication of the system Darius established. Although
Darius established a standard gold coinage, and some payments were made
in silver, much of the system operated by payments in kind. These were as-
sessed, allocated, and receipted from the center. State officials and servants
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22 A History of Iran
were paid in fixed quantities of wine, grain, or animals; but even members
of the royal family received payments in the same way. Officials in Persepo-
lis gave orders for the levying of taxes in kind in other locations, and then
gave orders for payments in kind to be made from the proceeds in the same
locations. Couriers were given tablets to produce at post stations along the
royal highways, so they could get food and lodging for themselves and their
animals. These tablets recording payments in kind cover only a relatively
limited period, from 509 to 494 bc. There are several thousand of them, and
it has been estimated that they cover supplies to more than fifteen thousand
different people in more than one hundred different places.18
It is significant that the tablets were written mainly in Elamite, not in
Persian. We know from other sources that the main language of administra-
tion in the empire was neither Persian nor Elamite, but Aramaic, the Se-
mitic lingua franca of Mesopotamia, Syria, and Palestine. The Bisitun
inscription states directly that the form of written Persian used there was
new, developed at Darius’s own orders for that specific purpose. It is possible
that he and the other Achaemenid kings discouraged any record of events
other than their own monumental inscriptions, but these are all strong
echoes of the Iranian distaste for writing that we encountered earlier in
Mazdaism, and it may go some way to explain an apparent anomaly—the
lack of Persian historical writing for the Achaemenid period. It is possible
that histories were recorded, that poems were written down, and that all
sorts of other literature once existed and have since been simply lost. But
later Persian literary culture was strongly associated with a class of scribes,
and the fact that the scribes in the Achaemenid system wrote their accounts
and official records in other languages suggests that the literature was not
there, either. There was no Persian history of the Achaemenid Empire be-
cause the Persian ruling classes either (the Magi) regarded writing as wicked
or (the kings and nobles) associated writing with inferior peoples—or both.
To ride, to shoot the bow, to tell the truth—but not to write it.
That said, no histories as such have survived from the Egyptian, Hittite,
or Assyrian empires, either. It is more correct, in the context of the fifth cen-
tury bc, to call the innovation of history writing by the Greeks an anomaly.
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Origins 23
24 A History of Iran
ignorant and backward. The Greeks were aware that the Persians had a
great, powerful, wealthy empire—but one, to their minds, run on tyrannical
principles and redolent of vulgar ostentation and decadence. The Persians
were therefore both backward and decadent. Here, we may be irresistibly re-
minded of the contemporary French view of the United States. Perhaps the
view of the Greeks also was better explained in terms of a simple resentment
or jealousy that the Persians, rather than the Greeks, were running such a
large part of the known world.
This is a caricature of the Greek opinion of the Persians, and cannot have
been, for example, Plato’s attitude or the attitude (openly, at any rate) of the
many Greeks who worked for or were allies of the Persians at various
times.19 The Greeks were also an imperialistic or at least a colonizing culture
of pioneering Indo-European origin. Perhaps the hostility between the Per-
sians and the Greeks had as much to do with similarity as with difference.
But in contrast to the Persians, the Greeks were not a single, unified power.
They were composed of a multiplicity of rival city-states, and their influence
was maritime rather than land-based. Greeks had established colonies along
almost all parts of the Mediterranean coast not previously colonized by the
Phoenicians, including places that later became Tarragona in Spain, Mar-
seilles in France, Cyrenaica in Libya, and large parts of Sicily and southern
Italy. They had done the same on the coast of the Black Sea. Unlike the Per-
sians, their spread was based on physical settlement, rather than on the con-
trol of indigenous peoples from afar.
Just as Persians appear in Greek plays and on Greek vases, there are also
examples showing the presence of the Greeks in the minds of the Persians.
As well as vases that show a Greek spearing a falling or recumbent Persian,
there are engraved cylinder seals showing a Persian stabbing a Greek or fill-
ing him with arrows.20 But it is fair to say the Persians were more present to
the Greeks—at least initially—than the Greeks to the Persians. Persian
power controlled important Greek cities like Miletus and Phocaea in Asia
Minor—only a few hours’ rowing away from Athens and Corinth—as well
as Chalcidice and Macedonia on the European side of the Bosphorus. In
Persepolis, Susa, and Hamadan, by contrast, Greece would have seemed half
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Origins 25
26 A History of Iran
Macedonia—Strange Fruit
Who were the Macedonians? Some have speculated that they were not
really Greeks, but more closely related to the Thracians. Or perhaps they de-
scended from some other Balkan people influenced by the arrival of Indo-
European Greeks. They had come under heavy Greek influence by the time
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:48 PM Page 27
Origins 27
of Philip and Alexander—but even at that late stage the Macedonians made
a strong distinction between themselves and the Greek hangers-on who ac-
companied Alexander’s eastern adventure. In the fifth century bc, Macedo-
nians were normally, like other non-Greeks, excluded from the Olympic
games. But the Persians seem to have referred to them as “Greeks with hats”
(they were known for their wide-brimmed hats), and Herodotus too seems
to have accepted them as of Greek origin. Like the Medes and Persians in
the time of Cyrus, as well as many other militant peoples from mountainous
or marginal areas, the Macedonians had a strong sense of their collective su-
periority—but they also sustained many private feuds among themselves.
They were notoriously difficult to manage.
Few stories from the classical world are better known than that of Philip
of Macedon and his son Alexander. Often the importance of the father to
the success of the son is neglected in favor of the latter’s more dramatic vic-
tories. Philip was born around 380 bc, became king of Macedon in 359 bc,
and immediately set about the expansion of his kingdom. One essential con-
tribution to the success of Macedon was his creation of a new, tightly drilled
infantry corps, equipped with a longer spear or pike than was normal in
Greece at the time. In favorable conditions this army usually swept aside or
rolled over conventionally armed infantry. Having established himself as the
prime power in northern Greece and Thrace, Philip defeated the alliance of
Athens and Thebes at the Battle of Chaeronea in 338 bc, and then set up
the League of Corinth, which established Macedonian hegemony and effec-
tively ended the independence of the Greek city-states, with the exception of
Sparta. When Philip demanded submission of the Spartans, saying that he
would come to Sparta and wreck their farms, kill the people, and destroy
their city, the Spartans replied: “If.” Philip and his son left the Spartans
alone—perhaps not least for the sake of the legend of Thermopylae.
Philip had other plans in any case—plans to invade the Persian Empire.
His preparations were quite open, and were justified in pan-Hellenic terms by
reference to the Persian desecration of Athenian temples in the invasion of
480 bc. But in 336 bc, before Philip could put his invasion plans into effect, he
was murdered. The circumstances of the murder are murky and were disputed
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28 A History of Iran
at the time—some have suggested that Alexander and his mother Olympias
were involved, but it is possible that the Persians instigated the killing.
Alexander continued where his father had left off. He consolidated his
authority in Greece, quickly crushing a rebellion in Thebes, and then, in 334
bc, crossed into Asia Minor. He defeated a Persian army at the Granicus
River (near the Dardanelles), conquered the towns of the Ionian coast—in-
cluding the Persian regional base at Sardis—and then marched east. The
following year he defeated Darius at the Battle of Issus (on the Mediterra-
nean coast near the modern border between Syria and Turkey), leading the
decisive attack personally at the head of his companion cavalry (hetairoi).
Alexander then marched south, taking the coastal cities, conquering Egypt
and founding Alexandria. Moving east again, in 331 bc Alexander defeated
Darius in a third battle, at Gaugamela, near Mosul and Irbil in what is now
Iraqi Kurdistan. Darius left the battlefield and was killed some time after by
Bessus, the satrap of Bactria.
This is not the place to consider Alexander’s conduct of war in any detail,
but his military brilliance illustrates something that may appear at first
counter-intuitive—the feminine nature of military genius at the highest
level. Successful high command has little or nothing to do with masculine
attributes like brute force, bravado, machismo, arrogance, or even courage,
except insofar as it may be necessary to advertise these from time to time to
inspire the troops. Rather, it has to do with what one might regard as more
feminine characteristics—sensitivity, subtlety, intuition, timing, an indirect
approach, an ability quietly to assess strength and weakness (based perhaps
on an intuitive grasp for the opponent’s likely behavior as much as factual in-
formation) to avoid and baffle strength, to flow around it, to absorb its force
and strike unexpectedly at the weak spot at precisely the right moment. Mil-
itary history shows again and again that predictable male behavior, manifest
in frontal attacks and reliance on strength alone, is at best a liability and at
worst catastrophically wasteful at the command level. The maximum effec-
tiveness of military force is achieved only by the more subtle methods asso-
ciated with what one might call a feminine approach. Without making any
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Origins 29
30 A History of Iran
2
The Iranian Revival
Parthians and Sassanids
31
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32 A History of Iran
new site at Seleuceia on the Tigris River. Finally it moved to Antioch on the
Mediterranean Sea.
The Seleucid kings pursued the easternizing policy of Alexander. They es-
tablished Greek military and trading colonies in the east and used Iranian
manpower in their armies, but their political attention was on the west—
particularly on their rivalry with the other major eastern Macedonian/Greek
dynasty, that of the Ptolemies in Egypt. In the east, outlying satrapies like
Sogdiana and Bactria gradually became independent princedoms, the latter
creating an enduring culture in what is now northern Afghanistan, fusing
eastern and Greek cultures under Greek successor dynasties.
Warrior Horsemen
The horse-based cultures of the northeast had given Alexander problems,
and the Achaemenids before him. Tribes like the Dahae and the Sakae, who
spoke languages in the Iranian family group, would always be very difficult
for any empire to dominate. With their military strength entirely on horse-
back, they were highly mobile and able, when threatened, to disappear into
the great expanses of desert and semi-desert south of the Aral Sea. Within
two generations of Seleucus Nicator’s death in 281 bc, one tribe or group of
tribes among the Dahae—the Parni—established their supremacy in
Parthia and other lands east of the Caspian. They supplanted the local Se-
leucid satrap, Andragoras—who around 250 bc had rebelled and tried to
make himself an independent ruler in Parthia—and began to threaten the
remaining territories of the Seleucids in the east. The Parni ruling family
named themselves Arsacids after Arshak (Arsaces), the man who had led
them to take control of Parthia. But as the Arsacids expanded their domin-
ion, they were careful to preserve the wealth and culture of the Greek
colonies in the towns. Parthian kings later used the title philhellenos (friend of
the Greeks) on their coinage.
Several Seleucid kings carried out expeditions to the east to restore their
authority in Parthia and Bactria, and the Parthian Arsacids occasionally
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:48 PM Page 33
chose to ally with them or even to submit, rather than to confront them. But
the Seleucids were always drawn back to the west, and in the reign of the
Arsacid Mithradates I (171–138 bc) the Parthians renewed their expansion,
taking Sistan, Elam, and Media. Then they captured Babylon in 142 bc and,
one year later, Seleuceia itself.
In the decades that followed, the Parthians were attacked by the Sakae in
the east and by the Seleucids in the west. Fortunes swung either way. At one
point in 128 bc the Parthians defeated a Seleucid army, captured it, and at-
tempted to use the prisoners against the Sakae—only to find that the Seleu-
cid troops had made common cause with the Sakae. Together, they defeated
and killed the Parthian king, Phraates. But Mithradates II (Mithradates the
Great) was able to consolidate and stabilize Parthian rule in a long reign from
about 123 to 87 bc, subduing enemies in both east and west. He also took the
title King of Kings, a deliberate reference back to the Achaemenid monarchy.
This, along with other indicators, suggests a new Iranian self-confidence.
Concealed behind the long struggle between the Seleucids and the
Parthians lie the origins of the silk trade, which was to be of central impor-
tance for many Iranian towns and cities for more than a millennium. The
initial involvement of Greeks and Greek cities in the silk business may go
some way toward explaining both the survival of Greek culture in the
Parthian period, and the Parthian kings’ respect for it. They were friends to
the Greeks not out of aesthetic sensibility or deference to a superior culture,
but because they wanted to protect the goose that laid the golden egg.1
Mithradates had diplomatic contacts with both the Chinese Han emperor
Wu Ti and with the Roman republic under the dictator Sulla. In order to es-
tablish a lasting presence in Mesopotamia, either he or his successor Go-
tarzes founded a new city at Ctesiphon, near Seleuceia. Ctesiphon was to
continue as the capital for more than seven hundred years, though Seleuceia,
on the other side of the Tigris, was often used as the center of administra-
tion, and Ecbatana/Hamadan as the summer capital.
The Parthians established a powerful empire and ruled successfully for
several centuries, but they did so with a relatively light touch, assimilating
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34 A History of Iran
the practices of previous rulers and being content to tolerate the variety of
religious, linguistic, and cultural patterns of their subject provinces. A sys-
tem of devolved power (parakandeh shahi, also called muluk al-tawa’if in later
Arab sources) through satraps continued, often keeping in power families
that had ruled under the Seleucids.2 Parthian scribes continued to use Ara-
maic, as in the time of the Achaemenids, and there appears to have been a
continued diversity of religion. Names like Mithradates and Phraates (the
latter a name thought to be related to the fravashi of the Avesta) show the
Mazdaean allegiances of the Arsacids themselves, but Babylonians, Greeks,
Jews, and others were allowed to follow their own religious traditions. As be-
fore, Mazdaism itself seems to have encompassed a variety of practices and
beliefs. In Jewish tradition, the Parthians are recorded and remembered
(with the important exception of the reign of one later king) as tolerant and
friendly toward the Jews.3 This may reflect the fact that the rise of the
Parthians in the east was helped by the prolonged struggle between the
Maccabean Jews and the Seleucids in Palestine.
The Parthians were not just crude nomads assuming the culture of their
subjects for lack of any of their own—or, at least, they did not remain so.
Parthian sculpture, with its own particular style that included a strong em-
phasis on frontality, was different in kind from any predecessor. Parthian
architecture—as excavated at Nisa, for example (in what is now Turk-
menistan)—shows for the first time the emergence of the audience hall or
ivan, a feature to be of great importance later, in Sassanid and Islamic archi-
tecture. The Parthians exemplified the best of Iranian genius—the recogni-
tion, acceptance, and tolerance of the complexity of the cultures and
influences over which they ruled, while retaining a strong central principle of
identity and integrity.
ARMENIA Nisa
Caspian Merv Balkh
R.
ROMAN s B AC T R I A
EMPIRE ra Sea
A
La k e Tus
U r miyeh A
Amida HI
P A R T Nishapur
Edessa MEDIA
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 35
Nisibis
Hecatompylos Herat
Carrhae Rayy
Hatra Hamadan
Antioch Qom
Ti
Dura Europos
gr
SYRIA
is R
Nahavand
.
E uphrat
e
s
R
)
Palmyra
Med. S ea
SISTAN
S
D
(L Seleuceia Isfahan Zarang
I
Damascus A Ctesiphon
K
H Qadesiyya Gondeshapur
AN
M
Yarmuk I
D
ASS
S
)
CARMANIA
Jerusalem Bishapur Istakhr
(G H
Shiraz
N FAR S
Ferozabad
0 200
km
Persian
Parthians & Sassanids Disputed territory Gulf Arabian Sea
35
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36 A History of Iran
leaders who saw conquest and military glory as necessary adjuncts to a suc-
cessful political career, the Roman republic by the first half of the first cen-
tury bc had taken over the eastern Mediterranean from its previous
Hellenistic overlords and had begun to press even farther eastward. The Ro-
mans’ main area of conflict with the Parthians was in Armenia, Syria, and
northern Mesopotamia.
In 53 bc Marcus Licinius Crassus, a fabulously rich Roman politician
who had destroyed the slave revolt of Spartacus in southern Italy in earlier
years, became the new governor of Roman Syria. Hoping to make conquests
in the east to rival those recently achieved by Caesar in Gaul, Crassus
marched an army of some forty thousand men east to Carrhae (modern
Harran)—arrogantly rejecting the advice of the king of Armenia to take ad-
vantage of his friendship and follow a less exposed northerly route. At Car-
rhae Crassus’s army was met in the open plain by a smaller but fast-moving
force of about ten thousand Parthian horsemen, including large numbers of
horse archers, supported by a much smaller force of heavily armored cavalry-
men on armored horses, each man wielding a long, heavy lance. The Roman
force was composed primarily of armored infantry equipped with swords
and heavy throwing spears, along with some Gaulish cavalrymen who were
either lightly armored or not armored at all.
The Parthians confronted Crassus with a kind of fighting that the Ro-
mans had not previously encountered, and against which they had no an-
swer. The Roman infantry advanced, but the Parthian horse archers
withdrew before them, circling around to shoot arrows into the flanks of
their column. Hour after hour the arrows rained down on the Romans, and
despite their heavy armor the powerful Parthian war bows frequently
zinged an arrow past the edge of a shield, found a gap at the neck between
body armor and helmet, punched through a weak link in chain mail, or
wounded a soldier’s unprotected hands or feet. The Romans grew tired and
thirsty in the heat, and their frustration at not being able to get to grips
with the Parthians turned to defeatism, especially when they saw the
Parthians resupply themselves with arrows from masses of heavily laden
pack camels.
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At one point Crassus’s son led a detachment, including the Gaulish cav-
alry, against the Parthians. The Parthians pulled back as if in disorder, but
their real intention was to draw the detachment away beyond any possible
assistance from the main body. When the Gauls rode ahead to chase off the
archers, the Parthian heavy cavalry charged down on them, spearing the
lightly armored Gauls and their horses with their long lances. In despera-
tion, the Gauls tried to attack the Parthian horses by dismounting and
rolling under them, trying to stab up at their unprotected bellies, but even
this desperate tactic could not save them. Then the full strength of the
Parthian horse archers turned on the Roman detachment. More and more
of them were hit by arrows, while all were disoriented and confused by the
clouds of dust thrown up by the Parthians’ horses. Crassus’s son pulled his
men back to a small hill—where they were surrounded and eventually
killed, with the exception of about five hundred, who were taken prisoner.
The defeat of the detachment and the jubilation of the Parthians further
demoralized the main Roman force. Finally, Crassus attempted to negotiate
with the Parthian general, Suren, only to be killed in a scuffle and beheaded.
The survivors of the Roman army withdrew in disorder back into Roman
Syria. Meanwhile, as many as ten thousand Roman prisoners were marched
off by the Parthians to the remote northeast of the empire.
According to the Greek historian Plutarch the head of Crassus was sent
to the Parthian king, Orodes, and it arrived while the king was listening to
an actor delivering some lines from Euripedes’s play The Bacchae. To the ap-
plause of the court, the actor took the head and spoke the words of Queen
Agave of Thebes, who in the play unwittingly killed her own son, King
Pentheus, while in a Bacchic trance:
Some have suggested that the Parthian general, recorded in the Western
sources as Suren, was the warrior-hero later remembered as Rostam and im-
mortalized in the revered tenth-century Persian poet Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh
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38 A History of Iran
(Book of Kings). Like Rostam, Suren hailed from Sistan (originally Sakas-
tan—the land of the Sakae), and like Rostam, he also had a troubled rela-
tionship with his king. Orodes was so resentful of Suren’s victory that he
had him murdered.
The defeat at Carrhae was a great blow to Roman prestige in the east, and
after it the Parthians were able to extend their control to include Armenia.
But in the fiercely competitive environment of Rome toward the end of the
republic, the defeat, humiliation, and death of Crassus were a challenge as
much as a warning. To succeed where Crassus had failed—to win a Parthian
triumph—became an inviting political prize. Another incentive was the
wealth of the silk trade. While the hostile Parthians controlled the central
part of the route to China, wealthy Romans were dismayed to see much of
the gold they paid to have their wives and daughters clothed in expensive
silks going to their most redoubtable enemies.
The next Roman to test the Parthians in a major way was Mark Antony.
But between the expeditions of Crassus and Antony, the Parthians and the
Romans fought several other campaigns, with mixed outcomes. In 51 bc
some Roman survivors from Carrhae ambushed an invading Parthian force
near Antioch and destroyed it. But in 40 bc another Parthian force, com-
manded by Orodes’s son Pacorus (with the help of a renegade Roman,
Quintus Labienus), broke out of Syria and conquered both Palestine and
most of the provinces of Asia Minor. Exploiting the chaos of the civil wars
that followed the murder of Julius Caesar in 44 bc, the Parthian invaders re-
ceived the submission of many towns without a siege. But a year or so later
Publius Ventidius, one of Mark Antony’s subordinates, rescued the eastern
provinces with some of the veteran legions of Caesar’s army. He defeated the
Parthians in a series of battles in which all the main Parthian commanders
were killed, including Pacorus and Labienus. Back in Rome, Ventidius’s tri-
umph over the Parthians was considered a rare honor. Seeing his lieutenant
so praised, Mark Antony wanted the glory of a victory against the Parthians
for himself.
In 36 bc he took an army more than double the size of that of Crassus
into the same area of upper Mesopotamia.5 Antony soon encountered many
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of the same difficulties that had frustrated Crassus. The Romans found that
their best remedy against the Parthian arrows was to form the close forma-
tion called the testudo (tortoise), in which the soldiers closed up so that their
shields made a wall in front, with the ranks behind holding their shields over
their heads, overlapping, to make a roof. This made an effective defense but
slowed the army’s advance to a crawl. The Roman infantry still could not hit
back at the Parthian horse archers, whose mobility enabled them to range at
will around the marching Romans and attack them at their most vulnerable.
The Parthians were also able to attack Antony’s supply columns, and the dif-
ficulty of finding food and water made the large numbers of the invading
force a liability rather than an asset. Having suffered in this way in the
south, Antony attempted a more northerly attack on Parthian territory, pen-
etrating into what is now Azerbaijan. But he achieved little, and was forced
to retreat through Armenia in the winter cold, losing as many as twenty-
four thousand men.
Antony saved some face by a later campaign in Armenia, but the overall
message of these Roman encounters with the Parthians was that the styles
of warfare of the opponents, and the geography of the region, dictated a
stalemate that would be difficult for either side to break. The Parthian cav-
alry was vulnerable to ambush by Roman infantry in the hilly, less open ter-
rain of the Roman-controlled territories, and lacked the siege equipment
necessary to take the Roman towns. At the same time, the Romans were vul-
nerable to the Parthians in the open Mesopotamian plain and would always
find it difficult to protect their supply lines against the more mobile Parthian
forces. These factors were more or less permanent.
Perhaps recognizing the intractability of this situation, after Augustus
eventually achieved supremacy in the Roman Empire and ended the civil
wars by defeating Mark Antony in 31/30 bc, Augustus followed a policy of
diplomacy with the Parthians. In this way he was able to retrieve the eagle
standards of the legions that had been lost at Carrhae. The Parthians seem
to have used the period of peace in the west to create a new Indo-Parthian
empire in the Punjab, under a line descended from the Suren family. But the
wars in the west began again in the reign of Nero, after the Parthian king
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40 A History of Iran
Vologases I (Valkash) had appointed a new king in Armenia, which the Ro-
mans regarded as a dependent state of the Roman Empire. The general
Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo conquered Armenia in ad 58–60, but the
Parthians counterattacked with some success thereafter, capturing a Roman
force.6 It has been suggested that the Roman armor made of overlapping
plates (lorica segmentata), familiar from films and children’s books, was devel-
oped as a counter to Parthian arrows around the time of the campaign of
Corbulo. The outcome of the Armenian war was that the Romans and
Parthians signed a treaty agreeing to the establishment of an independent
Arsacid dynasty in Armenia as a buffer state, but with the succession subject
to Roman approval.
Vologases I may also be significant in the history of Mazdaism and the
beginnings of its transition into the modern religion of Zoroastrianism.
Later Zoroastrian texts say that a king Valkash (they do not specify which
one—several Arsacid kings took that name) was the first to tell the Magian
priests to bring together all the oral and written traditions of their religion
and record them systematically. This began the process that, several cen-
turies later, led to the assembly of the texts of the Avesta and the other holy
scriptures of Zoroastrianism.7 If indeed it was Vologases I who gave out
those instructions (a conjecture supported by the fact that his brother Tiri-
dates was known also for his Mazdaean piety8), it would perhaps fit with
other decisions and policies during his reign, which seem consistently to
have stressed a desire to reassert the Iranian character of the state. Vologases
I is believed to have built a new capital named after himself near Seleuceia
and Ctesiphon, with the aim of avoiding the Greek character of those places.
Some of his coins were struck with lettering in Aramaic script (the script in
which the Parthian language was usually written) rather than in Greek, as
had been the case before. And there are suggestions also that he was hostile
to the Jews, which was atypical in the Arsacid period.9 Although his imme-
diate successors did not follow through with all of these novelties, they do
prefigure the policies of the Sassanids. The gradual erosion of Greek influ-
ence and the strengthening of Iranian identity are features of the reigns after
Vologases I.
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S OL I NVICTUS
Something else taken west by the Roman soldiers from their encounters in
the east was a new religion—Mithraism. Having been one of the subordi-
nate deities of Mazdaism in the Achaemenid period, Mithras became the
central god of a religion in its own right after his transition westward (in the
west he became known as Mithras rather than Mithra). It may be that his
significance had grown in a particular context or location in Persia or Asia
Minor at an earlier stage, and some have suggested that the cult was a wholly
new one that took little from Persia beyond the name.10 As worshipped in
the west, Mithras always remained primarily a god of soldiers (which may
point up a connection with the Parthian wars) and was an important bond-
ing element in the lives of military men who might find themselves sepa-
rated from friends and familiar places again and again in the course of their
lives, as they were posted from place to place. Although Mithras was associ-
ated with the sun (sol invictus—the Invincible Sun), Mithraism seems to
have taken on some of the ritualized cult character of Western paganism,
losing most of the ethical content of Iranian Mazdaism and becoming a
kind of secret society a little like the Freemasons. Its tenets included secret
ceremonies (mysteries), initiation rites, and a hierarchy of grades of mem-
bership. The underground temples of Mithras are found all over the empire,
as far away from Iran as by the Walbrook in London and at Carrawburgh
(Roman Brocolitia) on Hadrian’s Wall. The period of the cult’s early popu-
larity and spread was the first century ad.
Mithraism joins the list of important religious and intellectual influences
from the Iranian lands on the West. It is thought to have had an important
influence on the early Christian church, as the Christian bishops made con-
verts and tried to make the new religion as acceptable as possible to former
pagans (though the rise of Mithraism only narrowly predates the rise of
Christianity). Mithras’s followers believed he was born on December 25, of a
virgin (though some accounts say he was born from a rock), with shepherds
as his first worshippers. His rites included a kind of baptism and a sacramen-
tal meal. Other aspects of the cult reflected its Mazdaean origins—Mithras
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42 A History of Iran
was believed to have killed a bull as a sacrifice, and it was from the blood of
that bull that all other living things emerged. Mithras was the ally of Ahura
Mazda against the evil principle in the world, Ahriman.
In the following century the great soldier-emperor Trajan managed to
break the strategic logjam in the East with a new invasion of Mesopotamia,
after the Parthian Vologases III had given him a pretext by deposing one
ruler of Armenia and appointing another, whom the Romans did not like.
Instead of trying to toil south in the heat toward Ctesiphon on foot, under a
hail of arrows, in ad 115 Trajan put his men and equipment into boats and
ran them downstream through Mesopotamia along the river Tigris. When
they reached Ctesiphon and Seleuceia, they drove off the Parthian defenders
and applied the most refined techniques of Roman siege engineering. The
twin capital fell, and Trajan annexed the provinces of Mesopotamia to the
Roman Empire. He marched his men as far as the shore of the Persian Gulf
and would have liked to go farther, emulating Alexander. But in 116 he fell
ill while besieging Hatra, which his armies had bypassed earlier. A year later,
he died.
Trajan’s conquests, although impressive enough to win him the title
Parthicus, could not destroy the centers of Parthian power further east. In
the end, they proved to be little more permanent than the Parthian conquests
of Pacorus and Labienus in Palestine and Asia Minor of 40 bc. Before Trajan
died, the Romans had been assailed by revolts in Mesopotamia and else-
where in their eastern provinces. His successor, Hadrian, abandoned Trajan’s
conquests in Armenia and Mesopotamia and made peace with the Parthian
king Osroes (Khosraw) on the basis of the old frontier on the Euphrates
River. Nonetheless, Trajan had overcome the ghost of Carrhae and had
shown his successors how to crack the strategic problem of Mesopotamia.
It may be that the Trajanic invasion marks the beginning of a decline of
the Arsacids, and it is certainly plain that Mesopotamia had ceased to be the
secure possession it had been before. Over the next century, Roman armies
penetrated to Seleuceia/Ctesiphon twice more—in ad 165 (under Verus)
and in 199 (under Septimus Severus). But over the same period the Parthi-
ans fought back hard (assisted in 165/166 by the outbreak of a disease
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among the Romans that may have been smallpox), and made their own in-
cursion into Syria.
In 216, at the instigation of Emperor Caracalla, the Romans again in-
vaded, but got no farther than Arbela (Irbil/Hewler). Caracalla was one of
the most brutal of the Roman emperors (in 215 he had massacred thou-
sands of people in Alexandria because the citizens were reported to have
ridiculed him). While relieving himself on the side of a road near Carrhae,
he was apparently stabbed to death by his own bodyguards. The Parthians
under Artabanus (Ardavan) IV then struck back at the Romans under
Caracalla’s successor, Macrinus, and inflicted a heavy defeat on them at Nis-
ibis. After that, in 218, Macrinus had to yield up a heavy war reparation that
cost two hundred million sesterces (according to Dio Cassius) to secure
peace.
Whatever the precise effect of the wars on the Arsacid monarchy, they
must have been exhausting and damaging—especially in Mesopotamia and
the northwest, which would always have been, in good times, some of the
wealthiest provinces of the empire. There had always been vicious and pro-
tracted succession disputes among the Arsacids, thanks mostly to the nature
of court politics and, perhaps, the effect of the involvement of a group of no-
ble families (central to Arsacid rule seems to have been alliances with a small
group of wealthy families, including those of the Suren, Karen, and
Mehran). But these difficult succession struggles seem also to have grown
more frequent and intractable, exacerbating a falling-off of the authority of
the monarchy.
44 A History of Iran
Khuzestan. This victor’s name was Ardashir, a reference back to the name
Artakhshathra (Artaxerxes), the name of several of the Achaemenid kings.
Ardashir claimed Achaemenid descent, probably to disguise the more re-
cent, relatively humble origins of his family (who called themselves Sas-
sanids, after a predecessor called Sasan).
Ardashir also made a strong association between his cause and that of the
form of Mazdaism followed in Fars (his father, Papak, had been a priest of
Anahita at the religious center of Istakhr). The downfall of Artabanus was
later celebrated in a dramatic rock-carving at Ferozabad, which showed Ar-
dashir and his followers on galloping chargers, striking the Parthian king
and his men from their horses with their lances.
The Arsacid regime did not collapse immediately, and their coins were
still minted in Mesopotamia until 228. But in 226 Ardashir had himself
crowned King of Kings after taking Ctesiphon, and within a few years he
controlled all the territory of the former Parthian Empire. That fact alone
suggests that several of the great Parthian families (whose local rulerships
are known to have persisted long after 224) cooperated in the change of
dynasty.
Ardashir was determined from the beginning that his new dynasty would
assert and justify itself in a new way. His coins (and those of his successors)
bore inscriptions in Persian script instead of the Greek used on Arsacid
coins, and on the reverse showed a Mazdaean fire temple. The Sassanids
were to be Iranian, Mazdaean kings before all else. In another massively im-
pressive rock-carving at Naqsh-e Rostam near Persepolis, Ardashir is shown
on horseback receiving the symbol of his kingship from Ormuzd (the name
of Ahura Mazda in Middle Persian). Artabanus IV is depicted crushed be-
neath the feet of Ardashir’s horse, and Ahriman under the hooves of the
horse on which Ormuzd is seated. The message could not be more clear—
Ardashir had been chosen by God. His victory over the last Arsacid had
been assisted by God, and he had overcome Artabanus in a struggle that
paralleled directly that of Ormuzd against Ahriman, the principle of chaos
and evil.11 Coinage inscriptions also declared Ardashir to be of divine de-
scent. This was an innovation with important later resonances.
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Paradoxically for this very Iranian monarch, the idea may have originated
in the preceding period of Greek influence. The pattern of a new, autocratic
ruler from more or less obscure origins, taking power by force after a period
of disorder—and claiming the decision of God for his victory and his justi-
fication—has been suggested as a recurring theme in Iranian history by
Homa Katouzian, and perhaps has its archetypal image in this relief carv-
ing.12 The rebellion of Ardashir also, with its heavy religious overtones,
echoes earlier and later religious revolutions in Iran.
This rock-relief at Naqsh-e Rostam also includes the first known inscrip-
tion referring to Iran, though there are references in the Avesta that probably
pre-date the Sassanid period, and the word also appears on Ardashir’s coins.
From other contemporary evidence, the term Iran may refer to the territory
over which those responsible for the inscriptions considered the Mazdaean
religion to be observed. Or it may possibly refer to the territories in which
the Iranian family of languages were spoken (though the inclusion of Baby-
lonia and Mesene within Iran makes this doubtful). Or, perhaps, it signified
something less clearly defined, about people rather than territory, which par-
took of both things.
What is more certain is that alongside the concept of Iran was that of a
non-Iran (Aniran)—territories ruled by the Sassanid shah but not regarded
as Iranian. These included Syria, Cilicia, and Georgia.13 Whatever the pre-
cise significance of these terms, their use on the rock-carving strongly sug-
gests a sense of Iranian identity, perhaps centered on Fars but with
significance much beyond. It also seems unlikely that Ardashir conjured
these concepts from thin air. Their utility for him was as an underpinning
for his royal authority. To be effective for that purpose, they must have had
some resonance with his subjects—a resonance that touched on an older
sense of land, people, and political culture.
In later years Ardashir attempted to round off his success in taking over
the Parthian Empire by launching attacks on the Romans, along the old
front in upper Mesopotamia and Syria. This suggests that he felt the need to
justify his access to power by success against the Romans and, by extension,
that the Parthians’ perceived failures against the Romans had been part of
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46 A History of Iran
the reason for their downfall. At first impression, the interminable series of
wars between the Roman Empire and Persia (both in the Parthian period
and again in the Sassanid period) look almost inexplicable. They went on
and on, century after century. There was a potential economic gain for both
sides—the disputed provinces were rich provinces. But it was evident, cer-
tainly by the time of Ardashir, that the wars were very costly, that it would
be very difficult indeed for either party to deliver a knockout blow to the
other, and that any gains would be difficult for either side to hold perma-
nently. The wars and the disputed provinces had taken on a totemic value—
they had become part of the apparatus by which Persian shahs and Roman
emperors alike justified their rule. This explains their personal participation
in the campaigns, the triumphs in Rome and the rock-reliefs carved on the
hillsides of Fars. Upper Mesopotamia, Armenia, and Syria had become an
unfortunate playground for princes.
Ardashir was not initially successful in his wars against the Romans, but
after some years he was able to retake Nisibis and Carrhae. In his last years
he ruled jointly with his son Shapur, who succeeded him after his death in
241. And it was Shapur who achieved some of the most dramatic successes
of the long wars with Rome. These began with his defeat of the Romans at
Misikoe in 243, during which the Roman Emperor Gordian was killed. In
244, Shapur accepted the submission of Emperor Philip the Arab and the
cession of Armenia. In 259/260 the Emperor Valerian led an army against
Shapur—but the Persians defeated Valerian west of Edessa and took him
prisoner. These events are commemorated by another mural sculpture at
Naqsh-e Rostam, which shows Shapur on horseback receiving the submis-
sion of both Roman emperors. The inscription claims that Philip paid five
hundred thousand denarii in ransom, and that Shapur captured Valerian in
battle “Ourselves with Our own hands.”14 There are different accounts of
what happened to Valerian thereafter. The more sensational one (from Ro-
man sources) is that after some years of humiliation the former emperor was
eventually flayed alive; his skin was then stuffed with straw and exhibited as
a reminder of the superiority of Persian arms. Anthony Hecht wrote a poem
based on this story, from which the following is an excerpt:
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But the inscription at Naqsh-e Rostam says the Roman captives were set-
tled in various places around the empire, and there is evidence of this at
Bishapur and Shushtar, where the Romans showed their engineering exper-
tise by building a combined bridge and dam, the remains of which can still
be seen (along with other Roman-built bridges elsewhere). It may be that
Valerian, rather than surviving only as a stuffed skin to be giggled at, lived
out his days as pontifex maximus of a Persian city. Given the other evidence of
Shapur’s generally humane conduct (and the spirit of the Naqsh-e Rostam
relief itself, which seems to show magnanimity rather than brutal humilia-
tion of the enemy), it may be that the former story is just a rather gruesome
fable, reported by uncritical Roman historians who had no idea what really
had become of Valerian after his capture, but were ready to believe the worst
of the Persians. Large numbers of ordinary people, including many Chris-
tians from Antioch and elsewhere, were brought back and settled in Persia
by Shapur after his campaigns. In addition to the wars with Rome, both Ar-
dashir and Shapur campaigned in the east against the Kushans, eventually
establishing Sassanid rule over large parts of what are now Central Asia, Af-
ghanistan, and northern India.
Ardashir and Shapur made changes in government that may have paral-
leled the beginnings of some deeper changes in society. Government became
more centralized, the bureaucracy expanded, and from the devolved system
of the Parthians (sometimes, probably misleadingly, described as a kind of
feudalism) a new pattern evolved.16 New offices and titles appeared in in-
scriptions, including dibir (scribe), ganzwar (treasurer), and dadwar (judge).
The old Parthian families continued, but were given court offices and may
thereby, one may say, have been domesticated (a change reminiscent of the
way in which Louis XIV of France tamed the French nobility after the
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48 A History of Iran
Fronde civil wars of the mid-seventeenth century). This change in role for
the great nobles may in time have helped initiate another phenomenon of
social, cultural, and military significance: the emergence of a class of gentry,
the dehqans, who in later centuries controlled the countryside, its villages,
and its peasantry on the shah’s behalf, and provided the armored cavalry that
were the central battle-winning weapon of the Sassanid armies. (Though in
the interim the great noble families retained much of their power in the
provinces, and the cavalry were provided in large part by their retainers—as
in the time of the Parthians.)
In several other ways the long reign of Shapur continued and fulfilled the
policies set in motion by Ardashir. Following the precedent of his father at
Ferozabad and elsewhere, Shapur was also a great founder of cities—Bisha-
pur and Nishapur, among others. The establishment of these cities17 and the
growth of old ones, abetted by the expansion of trade within and beyond the
large empire (especially along the silk routes as well as, increasingly, by sea to
India and China), brought about changes in the Persian economy. Bazaars of
the kind familiar later, in the Islamic period, grew up in the cities—a home
to merchants and artisans, who formed trade guilds. Agriculture expanded
to meet the demand for food from the towns, and nomadic pastoralism re-
ceded in significance. The spread of land under cultivation was facilitated by
the use of qanat—underground irrigation canals that carried water as far as
several kilometers, from highland areas to villages. There it could be distrib-
uted to fields. Agriculture was also expanded in Mesopotamia, where, if
properly irrigated, the rich soils of the great river valley were potentially very
productive, capable of yielding several crops a year.
Culturally, the resettlement of Greeks, Syrians, and others from the Ro-
man Empire brought in a renewed burst of interest in Greek learning, and
new translations into Pahlavi were carried out (Pahlavi was the Middle Per-
sian language spoken in the Sassanid period, simplified from the more
grammatically complex Old Persian spoken in Achaemenid times). Eventu-
ally, recognized schools of learning, including those for medicine and other
sciences, flourished in cities like Gondeshapur and Nisibis. Inscriptions also
record Shapur’s pious establishment of fire altars named for various mem-
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bers of his family. Each altar would have involved an endowment to support
the priests and their families. These endowments, along with similar ones
established by the great nobles, enhanced the economic and political power
of the priests (mobad).
Dark Prophet
Another phenomenon that emerged in the reign of Shapur was a new reli-
gion—Manichaeism, named after its originator, the prophet Mani. Aside
from a more or less vague idea of a dualistic division between good and evil,
Mani and his doctrines are obscure to most people today. But on closer
examination Mani’s ideas and his movement turn out to have been enor-
mously influential, especially in medieval Europe.
Mani was born in April 216 in Parthian Mesopotamia, of Iranian parents
descended from a branch of the Arsacid royal family, who had moved there
from Hamadan/Ecbatana. There is a story that he was born lame, and some
have suggested that his pessimism and his disgust at the human body had
something to do with that. As with other founders of world religions, Mani
was born into a troubled time and place. His parents seem to have been
Christians,18 and he was strongly influenced by gnostic ideas in his formative
years. (The gnostics were an important sect of early Christianity, though
some believe their ideas pre-date Christianity, incorporating Platonic ideas.
Similar movements in Judaism and even, later, Islam have been identified
and labelled gnostic. Broadly, they believed in a secret knowledge—gnosis—
that derived from a personal, direct experience with the divine.) At some
point before about 240, Mani claimed to have received a revelation that told
him not to eat meat or drink wine or to sleep with women. The doctrine of
Mani incorporated Christian elements, but depended heavily on a creation
myth (if it can be called that) derived from Mazdaean concepts, particularly
the pessimistically and deterministically inclined forms of the branch of
Mazdaism called Zurvanism. This had been particularly important in Mes-
opotamia for several centuries, drawing on indigenous traditions like that of
astrology.
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50 A History of Iran
Put simply, Manichaeism was based on the idea of a queasy, dystopic cre-
ation in which the good—the light—had been overwhelmed and domi-
nated by evil—the demonic—which was itself identified with matter.
Through copulation and reproduction (inherently sinful), evil had impris-
oned light in matter and had established the dominance of evil on earth. Je-
sus was able to liberate man from this miserable condition, but only briefly,
and the only real hope was the eventual liberation of the spirit in death. This
dismal and ugly vision of existence was presented as a religion of liberation
from material existence and evil. Mani wrote down a series of religious texts
and liturgies, many of which were quite beautiful. After a meeting with Sha-
pur in 243 at which Mani impressed the shah favorably,19 Mani was allowed
to preach the new religion all over the Sassanid Empire. Presumably the
king failed to question him too closely—Shapur was distinguished by a tol-
erant attitude to all religions, including Judaism and Christianity. It is
tempting to wish that he had made an exception in Mani’s case. Mani ac-
companied Shapur in some of the campaigning that year against the Ro-
mans, which is coincidental because the great Neoplatonist, Plotinus, was
apparently accompanying the Roman emperor through the same campaign,
on the other side.
The teachings of Mani spread rapidly and widely—beyond Persia into In-
dia, Europe, and Central Asia. They survived longest in Central Asia, as an
open rather than a persecuted, underground movement, and there yielded
most of the authoritative texts from which Manichaeism is understood by ac-
ademics today. Mani organized teams of scribes to translate and copy his
writings into different languages.20 His followers formed a hierarchy of be-
lievers, with an exclusive elect of pharisaic priests at their head. These were
the people who followed the purity rules and the rules of abstinence and
chastity and other life-hating mumbo jumbo to their fullest extent. But the
sect was generally despised and declared heretical—especially by the Maz-
daean Magi, but also by the Jews, the Christians, and even by gnostics like the
Mandaeans. Eventually, Mani returned from his travels (after Shapur’s
death) to a less tolerant atmosphere, and the Magi—who hated Mani more
than anyone else because of his subversion and distortion of their own be-
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liefs—were able to have him imprisoned. In February 277 Mani was killed by
being crushed over a period of twenty-six days by some very heavy chains.
By the time of Mani’s death, though, the damage was done. It would be
foolish to attribute all the evils of religion to Mani, but he does seem to have
done a remarkably good job of infecting a range of belief systems with the
most damaging and depressing ideas about impurity, the corruption of ma-
terial existence, and the sinfulness of sexual pleasure. Of course, some of his
notions were useful also to those wishing to elaborate metaphysically upon
misogynistic impulses, and to those with a deterministic bent. His thinking
was a kind of Pandora’s box of malignity, the particles from which went flut-
tering off in all directions on their misshapen wings. As the scholar of Per-
sian religion Alessandro Bausani said, Mani seems to have constructed
myths out of a sense of the “monstrosity of existence”:
. . . myths that have the particularly unpleasant characteristic of not being nat-
ural and rising from below . . . not based on a wide-ranging religious sociality
like the Zoroastrian ones, for they are almost the personal dreams of an ex-
hausted and maniacal intellectual.21
But his ideas were complex, varied, and innovative, and not all bad. They
may later have had some influence on Islam—Mani, like Mohammad in the
seventh century, declared himself to be the “seal of the prophets,” and there
are other parallels.22 But the central tenets of Islam were intrinsically anti-
Manichaean in spirit, and the Prophet Mohammad, speaking of various
sects and faiths, was clear that “All will be saved except one: that of the
Manichaeans.”23 Despite the condemnation heaped upon Mani’s teachings,
they seem to have persisted among an underground sect. But the most star-
tling story is that of Mani’s influence in the West.
Of all the fathers of the Christian church, probably the most influential
was St. Augustine of Hippo. Augustine wrote wonderful books that ex-
plained the Christian religion to the uneducated—explained the downfall of
the Roman Empire in Christian terms, absolving the Christians of blame
(some, like Gibbon, have remained unconvinced); Augustine also explained in
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52 A History of Iran
touching and humane terms his own life, his own sense of sin, and his own
(late) conversion to Christianity (“O Lord, Make me chaste—but not yet”).
Augustine’s presence in the thought of the church in later centuries was domi-
nant. He also explained the reasons Manichaeism was heretical in a Christian
context. But the remarkable fact is, before he converted to Christianity, Au-
gustine himself had been an avowed Manichaean, had converted others to the
sect, and may have served as a Manichaean priest. It has been disputed, but
the imprint of Manichaeism on Augustine’s thinking is obvious and heavy.
Many of the ideas that Augustine’s teaching successfully fixed in Catholic
Christian doctrine—notably that of original sin (strongly associated by him
with sexuality), predestination, the idea of an elect of the saved, and (notori-
ously) the damnation of unbaptized infants—originated at least partly in
debates that had been going on earlier within the Christian church, though
those discussions had been influenced by similar gnostic ideas to those
which had inspired Mani. But many of these key concepts—especially the
central one, original sin—also show a striking congruence with Manichaean
doctrine. Surely Augustine could not successfully have foisted upon the
Christian church Manichaean ideas that the church had already declared
heretical? Yet that seems to have been what happened, and Augustine was
accused of doing precisely this by contemporaries—notably by the apostle
of free will, Pelagius, who in the early years of the fifth century fought long
and hard with Augustine over precisely these theological problems. Pelagius
lost, and was himself declared a heretic. It was perhaps the most damaging
decision ever made by the Christian church.24
As pursued later by the Western Christian church in medieval Europe, the
full grim panoply of Manichaean/Augustinian formulae emerged to blight
millions of lives, and they are still exerting their sad effect today—the dis-
taste for the human body, the disgust for and guilt about sexuality, the misog-
yny, the determinism (and the tendency toward irresponsibility that emerges
from it), the obsessive idealization of the spirit, the disdain for the material—
all distant indeed from the original teachings of Jesus. One could argue that
the extreme Manichaean duality of evil materiality versus good spirituality
emerged most strongly in heresies like those of the Cathars and the Bogomils
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that the church pursued most energetically (the same Bogomils from whom
the English language acquired the term “bugger”). The great scholar and Per-
sianist Bausani (from whom I have taken much of my account of
Manichaean beliefs) doubted the connection with these Western heresies,25
but many of their beliefs and practices showed a close identity with those of
Manichaeism, which is not easily discounted. The ferocity of the medieval
church’s persecution of the Cathars and others derived really from the dan-
gerous similarity between the heretics’ doctrines and the orthodox ones—
they had merely carried orthodox doctrine to its logical extreme. The church
was trying to destroy its own ugly shadow. The Eastern Orthodox Church,
sensibly, never embraced Augustinian theology to the same extent.
The real opponent to Augustinian orthodoxy was Pelagianism—a
simple, natural golden thread, sometimes concealed, running through me-
dieval thought, to emerge again in Renaissance humanism. If ever a Christian
thinker deserved to be made a saint, then surely Pelagius did. If ever a pair of
thinkers deserved Nietzsche’s title Weltverleumder26 (world-slanderers), then
they were Mani and Augustine.
To return to Persia from this excursion, we should remember that
Manichaeism was condemned by the Mazdaean Magi as a heresy at an early
stage, and that it is more correct to see it as a distortion of Iranian thinking—
or indeed as an outgrowth of Christian gnosticism dressed in Mazdaean
trappings—than as representative of anything enduring in Iranian thought.
Renewed War
Shapur’s defeats of the Romans had contributed to the near-collapse of the
Roman Empire in the third century. For a while after the capture of Valerian
in 260 the Romans were in no fit state to strike back, and it seemed as if the
whole East was open to Persian conquest. But a new power arose in the vac-
uum, based on the Syrian city of Palmyra. It was led by Septimius Ode-
nathus, a Romanized Arab, and his wife Zenobia (Zeinab).
Odenathus swept through the Roman provinces of the East, and some
Western sources have suggested that he campaigned successfully in the
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54 A History of Iran
western part of the Sassanid Empire as well, though this has been disputed.
Odenathus was assassinated in about 267 and was succeeded by Zenobia,
who conquered Egypt in 269 but was defeated by the emperor Aurelian in
273. Aurelian restored the fortunes of Rome in the region. By that time Sha-
pur was dead; he probably died of illness in Bishapur in May 270, though
some have put his death in ad 272.27 In any case, his reign had boosted the
prestige of the Sassanid dynasty enormously, and had established the Per-
sian Empire as the equal of Rome in the East.
After Shapur’s death several of his sons reigned for short periods in suc-
cession, and a Mazdaean priest named Kerdir gradually strengthened his
position at court. Kerdir used this position to begin asserting Mazdaean or-
thodoxy more aggressively, achieving not just the death of Mani and the per-
secution of his followers, but also the persecution of Jews, Christians,
Buddhists, and others. Not for the last time the over-involvement of reli-
gious leaders in Iranian politics led to the persecution of minorities (and
perhaps too, at length, to the discrediting of the persecutors).
In 283 the Romans invaded Persian territory again, and the outcome of
the war was a new settlement, dividing Armenia between the two rival em-
pires and losing some frontier provinces that Shapur had conquered. The
Persians made further concessions in 298 after some less-than-successful
fighting under Narseh, another of Shapur’s sons (who had ascended to the
throne in the wake of the Kerdir episode). The peace treaty signed then
lasted for many years, and Armenia was confirmed as an Arsacid kingdom
under Roman protection. A rock-relief at Naqsh-e Rostam shows Narseh
being invested with royalty by Anahita, the traditional patroness of the Sas-
sanids. It has been suggested that this signified a post-Kerdir return to a tra-
ditional, more tolerant religious policy.28
In 310 a young boy ascended the throne as Shapur II, after some dispute
over the succession. He reigned a long time, until 379. One notable aspect of
this reign is that it appears to have consolidated the process of revision, col-
lation, and codification that the Mazdaean religion had been undergoing
since the accession of Ardashir, and perhaps before. According to a later
Zoroastrian tradition, Ardashir had instructed his high priest to reassemble
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and complete the dispersed fragments of text and oral tradition that had
been preserved. Shapur I ordered that these should be augmented by all the
knowledge of science, philosophy, and other fields that could be gathered
from sources outside Persia—notably from India and Greece. Finally, Sha-
pur II organized an extended discussion and debate between the various
disputing sects of Mazdaism in order to establish a single, authorized doc-
trine. A priest called Adhurpat endured an ordeal by fire to prove the valid-
ity of his arguments. Because he emerged safely, he was permitted to make
final liturgical additions to the Avesta. This seems to have been the decisive
moment at which the previous differences were resolved and Zoroastrian re-
ligion coalesced from its previous disparate elements into a single, unitary
orthodoxy—from which, in turn, modern Zoroastrianism derives. From
this point on, and acknowledging the arbitrariness of choosing any particu-
lar time to mark what was a gradual transition, it makes sense to speak of
Zoroastrianism rather than Mazdaism.29
Shortly before Shapur II became shah, Armenia turned Christian, at least
officially. During Shapur’s reign the Emperor Constantine designated Chris-
tianity the official religion of the Roman Empire too, claiming to be the pro-
tector of all Christians everywhere. Thus Christians within Persia became
suspect as potential spies and traitors, and this tense situation gradually made
the previous tolerance of most of the earlier Sassanid kings difficult to sus-
tain. The new orthodoxy of Zoroastrianism, with its political connections
and influence, became intolerant of rivals within Persia, and religious strife
resulted. Tension also increased because Constantine was keeping at his
court one of Shapur’s brothers, Hormuzd, as a potential claimant to the Per-
sian throne. After learning the trade of war in campaigns against the Arabs
(in which he was successful, resettling some defeated tribes to Khuzestan),
Shapur II demanded the restitution of the provinces won by Shapur I in
northern Mesopotamia and subsequently lost by his successors. War with
Rome broke out again, rolling back and forth between 337 and 359, and the
Persians eventually took Amida (modern Diyarbakir in Turkey).
In 363 the Emperor Julian, one of the most interesting of the later Roman
emperors—a scholar and a pagan who did his best to overturn Constantine’s
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56 A History of Iran
both. The heroic period of ambition-driven warfare was over, and even when
war broke out again between the two empires in the sixth century, it was
waged not by glory-hungry emperors, but by their generals.
Yazdegerd I also followed a tolerant religious policy. He was friendly to
the Jews (who hailed him as the new Cyrus) and employed Jewish officials.
It was during his reign that a distinct Persian Christianity emerged to be-
come what is normally called the Nestorian church, the first synod of which
was held in ad 410. This measure would have had the obvious effect of de-
taching Persian Christians from the taint of being a fifth column for the Ro-
mans. But not everyone approved. These religious policies made the shah
unpopular with the clergy, and Yazdegerd, like his immediate predecessors,
was murdered. The fact that his name was taken up by several later succes-
sors suggests that his memory was nonetheless respected in court circles.
The reigns following that of Shapur II are significant because they indi-
cate the emergence of a theory of kingship that went beyond a system of al-
liance or identification with a particular religion or class, to assert that the
shah had a duty to uphold justice for all his subjects. That such a theory ex-
isted we know from post-Islamic sources, who advised rulers of later times
on the basis of patterns and ideas that had been the standard under the Sas-
sanids. The king ruled on the basis of divine grace (kvarrah in Middle Per-
sian/Pahlavi—a concept that goes back to the Avesta and the Achaemenid
period, evidenced primarily by success in war) and was allowed to raise taxes
and keep soldiers, but only on the basis that he ruled justly and not tyranni-
cally. Injustice and tyranny would break the peace that permitted productive
agriculture and trade. That in turn would reduce the tax yield, lessen the
king’s ability to reward soldiers, and threaten the stability of his rule. Justice
was the key that turned a vicious circle into a virtuous circle. But in practice,
the attempts of a king like Yazdegerd to rule justly, according to his judg-
ment, might not accord with the ideas of the Zoroastrian priests. The ab-
stract principle could be used as a weapon by either side.
After some confusion, Yazdegerd was succeeded by his son, Bahram V, also
known as Bahram Gur (wild ass) after his enthusiasm for hunting those ani-
mals. Bahram became a legendary figure, around whom many popular stories
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58 A History of Iran
were told. They elaborated on his love of women, music, and poetry, as well as
on his generosity and bravery. He had been brought up in Hira by an Arab
foster father, and there is evidence that the over-mighty clergy may have dis-
liked this. In war, Bahram Gur was successful at protecting Persian frontiers in
the East, re-establishing Persian control of Armenia, and making a treaty with
the Romans that provided for religious tolerance in both empires. But his love
of hunting was his downfall. He is believed to have disappeared into quick-
sand after a mishap while pursuing game in marshland in Media in 438/439.
Yazdegerd II, who succeeded Bahram Gur, seems to have been a ruler
more to the liking of the Zoroastrian priesthood. He attempted to re-impose
Zoroastrianism on Armenia, provoking a civil war there. He seems also to
have permitted renewed persecution of Christians and Jews in Persia proper.
Touraj Daryaee, an expert on Sassanid Persia, suggests that Yazdegerd II
also inclined to the more east Persian kingly mythology, derived from the
Avesta and its references to the Kayanid kings, rather than to the west Per-
sian sub-Achaemenid version.32
Throughout this period the threat from northern and eastern tribal no-
mads intensified (the Romans came under the same pressure, which is one
reason the wars with Rome abated at this time). Yazdegerd II was successful
against them for the most part, but in 454 he was forced to retreat. He died
three years later. After a dynastic struggle, his son Peroz (Feruz) gained the
throne with the help of the people known as the Hephtalite Huns. But the
Hephtalites captured him in battle in 469, and Peroz was forced to pay a
huge ransom, and to yield territory, in return for his release. This was also a
time of hardship, drought, and famine. Peroz renewed the struggle with the
Hephtalites in 484 but was killed in battle, and the Persians were utterly de-
feated. His successor could only fend off his eastern enemies by paying them
tribute, and he was eventually deposed.
Kavad I came to the throne in 488 at a time of crisis. The Hephtalites
had sliced off a swath of Persia’s eastern provinces. Repeated famines, the ex-
actions of the arrogant nobility, and taxes required to make tribute pay-
ments had reduced the peasantry to a miserable state. Provinces in the west
and southwest were in revolt.
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60 A History of Iran
and nobility were forced to support Khosraw for fear that another of
Kavad’s sons, a pro-Mazdakite, would become shah). Perhaps most impor-
tantly, the taxation system was reformed, a poll tax was established, and a
survey of taxable land was carried out to ensure the taxation was equitable.35
The empire was divided into four sectors, each under the command of a mil-
itary commander (spahbod) and supported by a chancery (diwan) that kept
his troops supplied. In addition, a new clerical office was established—a
Protector of the Poor, who reinforced the moral duty of the priesthood to
look after the interests of the lowest strata of society (a duty they had pre-
sumably neglected before). The reforms created, or certainly greatly
strengthened, a new class of dehqans—rural gentry who collected tax in the
villages and were themselves small landowners. The dehqans also provided
the battle-winning Persian cavalry that dominated the shah’s armies. From
now on, though, they were paid and retained by the shah instead of the great
noble families. Identifying closely with the shah’s interest, and providing ad-
ministrators and courtiers as well as soldiers, the dehqan class became the
prime means by which the traditions and culture of Sassanid Persia were
preserved and transmitted onward after the Islamic conquest.
With these reforms well under way by the 520s, Kavad decided that Maz-
dak had outlived his usefulness.36 It seems a debate was organized in order to
discredit his doctrines, at which not just the Zoroastrian clergy but also the
Christians and Jews spoke out against Mazdak. According to the story told
much later by Ferdowsi, Kavad then turned Mazdak and his followers over to
Khosraw, who had the charismatic communist’s people buried alive—
planted head down in a walled orchard, with only their feet showing above
the ground. Khosraw then invited Mazdak to view his garden, telling him,
You will find trees there that no-one has ever seen and no-one ever heard of
even from the mouth of the ancient sages . . .
Mazdak went to the garden and opened the gate, but when he saw the
kind of trees that were planted in Khosraw’s garden he gave a loud cry, and
fainted. Khosraw had him strung up by the feet from a gallows, then killed
him with volleys of arrows. Ferdowsi concluded,
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If you are wise, do not follow the path of Mazdak. And so the nobles be-
came secure in their possessions, and women, and children, and their rich
treasures.37
Khosraw Anushirvan
After his accession in 531, Khosraw continued with his father’s reforms, com-
pleting the destruction of the Mazdakites.38 His court became a center for
learning, attracting in particular some of the Greek Neoplatonists whose
school of philosophy had been closed down in Athens by the emperor
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62 A History of Iran
Justinian. But as Gibbon wrote, these were Platonists “whom Plato himself
would have blushed to acknowledge”:
monarchy should be, even after the Sassanids themselves had long since
disappeared.
Khosraw was also successful in war, defeating not just the Hephtalites
but also the Turks, who had been instrumental in weakening the Hephtal-
ites at an earlier stage and were now pressing on the empire’s northern and
northeastern borders. Following up the successes of his father and his fa-
ther’s spahbod (commander) Azarethes in defeating the great general Belisar-
ius at Nisibis and Callinicum in 530 and 531, Khosraw also fought a series
of wars with the East Romans (hereafter usually called the Byzantines) in
which he was generally successful. The Byzantines renewed treaties accord-
ing to which the Persians, in return for large cash sums, would prevent ene-
mies from invading Asia Minor through the Caucasus. Finally, Khosraw
retook the strategic town of Dara in 572 and was able again to send his
troops raiding into Syria as far as Antioch. The Byzantines made further
truces, buying the Persians off with large sums of gold.40
On Khosraw’s death in 579, his son Hormuzd IV took the throne. Hor-
muzd seems to have done his best to maintain the balance established by his
father—supporting the dehqans against the nobility and defending the rights
of the lower classes, as well as resisting attempts by the clergy to reassert them-
selves. But he resorted to executions to do so, and was remembered accord-
ingly by the Zoroastrians as a cruel and unjust king. In this situation, one of
the generals, Bahram Chubin, who had achieved successes in war in the east,
marched on Ctesiphon after being criticized by Hormuzd for a less-than-
brilliant performance in war in the west. Bahram Chubin was a descendant of
the old Parthian Arsacid line, through the great family of the Mehran. With
the help of other nobles, he deposed, blinded, and later killed Hormuzd, put-
ting Hormuzd’s son, Khosraw II, in power (in about 589/590).
But then Bahram declared himself king, restoring the Arsacid dynasty.
This was too much for the majority of the political class, who held strongly
to the dynastic principle and supported the right of Khosraw II to rule. Af-
ter a reverse that forced him to flee to the west, Khosraw II returned with
the support of the Byzantine emperor, Maurice, and ejected Bahram, who
fled to the territory of the Turks (Turan) and was murdered there.
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64 A History of Iran
Khosraw Parvez
Surviving various further disputes and rebellions among the nobility with
Armenian and Byzantine help, Khosraw II was able to establish his su-
premacy again by 600, and took the title Khosraw Parvez—The Victorious.
The title was to prove apposite, but Khosraw II did not have the vision or
the moral greatness of his namesake, his grandfather. He may even have
been implicated in the murder of his father, and his life was studded with in-
cidents of cruelty and vindictiveness, intensifying as he grew older. He did
everything to excess. He burdened his subjects with increasingly heavy taxa-
tion, accumulating enormous wealth in the process. Although he was re-
membered afterward for the great story of his love for the Christian girl
Shirin, he had an enormous harem of wives, concubines, dancers, musicians,
and other entertainers. When he went hunting he did so in a huge park
stuffed with game of all kinds. At court he sat on a splendid throne, under a
dome across which celestial spheres moved by a hidden mechanism in a
planetarium.
But his greatest excess was in war. In 602 Khosraw II’s benefactor, the
Byzantine emperor Maurice, was murdered and supplanted by a usurper,
Phocas—one account says that Maurice was forced to watch the execution
of his five sons before he himself was killed. The Byzantine territories subse-
quently fell into disorder and civil war, made worse by divisions between
Christian sects. Phocas sent an army against dissenting Christians in Anti-
och, perpetrating a massacre there. At Edessa, a local Byzantine general was
resisting Phocas’s forces. Khosraw used the pretext of Maurice’s murder to
make war against Phocas in revenge, and relieved Edessa. He was able from
there to extend his control over the other Byzantine frontier posts and then,
after some preparation, to unleash his armies on the eastern Byzantine Em-
pire. The Byzantines had been concentrating their efforts on their Danube
frontier against the Avars, and were relatively weak in the east.
By this time (610) Phocas had been deposed by Heraclius, who was to
prove one of the most capable of all Byzantine emperors. Of Armenian de-
scent, Heraclius tried to make peace with the Persians, but Khosraw ignored
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him. The able Persian generals Shahrvaraz and Shahin led the Sassanid
armies through Mesopotamia, Armenia, and Syria into Palestine and Asia
Minor. They took Antioch in 611, Damascus in 613, and then Jerusalem in
614 (sending a shock through the whole of the Christian world). At
Jerusalem the Christian defenders refused to give up the city, and it was
taken by assault after three weeks, and given over to sack. According to
Byzantine Christian sources, the Jews of the city and the surrounding region
(who had been persecuted and excluded from the city for centuries) joined
in a massacre in which sixty thousand Christians died.41 The Persians car-
ried off the relic of the True Cross to Ctesiphon. Within another four years
they had conquered Egypt and were in control of most of Asia Minor, as far
as Chalcedon, opposite Constantinople on the shores of the Bosphorus. No
shah of Persia since Cyrus had achieved such military successes.
But then Fortune switched her allegiance. Heraclius made careful prepa-
rations and crystallized the religious dimension of the conflict into a holy
war, devoting himself and his army to God. Later Christian chroniclers in-
cluded his expedition with the descriptions of the Crusades. In a bold move,
in 622 (the same year as the Prophet Mohammad’s flight from Mecca to
Medina) he took a small band of elite troops by water to the southeastern
corner of the Black Sea, bypassing all the Sassanid forces in Asia Minor, and
from there burst into Armenia, deliberately devastating the countryside
everywhere he went. Heraclius managed to keep Shahrvaraz inactive by
sending him letters that suggested Khosraw intended to kill him. With the
support of the Turkish Khazars from north of the Caucasus, the Byzantines
marched on into Azerbaijan and destroyed one of the most sacred Persian
fire temples, at what is today called Takht-e Soleiman (The Throne of
Solomon).
The Persians withdrew from Asia Minor, and in 627 suffered a crushing
defeat at Nineveh. Early the following year, with Heraclius threatening Cte-
siphon, Khosraw II was deposed and his son Kavad II became shah. Kavad
sued for peace, offering the restitution of all the previous Persian conquests,
and this was agreed to in 629. Khosraw, put on trial, was convicted of a
lengthy series of crimes including patricide (his complicity in the murder of
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66 A History of Iran
Hormuzd IV), cruelty toward his subjects (especially soldiers and women),
ingratitude toward the Byzantines, ruinous avarice, and mistreatment of his
own children.42 But Kavad showed himself scarcely more of a just ruler,
murdering all his brothers to eliminate rivals. These killings (which repeated
some of the worst cruelties of the Arsacid period) meant a shortage of can-
didates with obvious legitimacy in the years that followed.
The destruction of the wars had ruined some of the richest provinces of
both empires, and the taxation to pay for them had impoverished the rest.
Turks were on the loose throughout the eastern provinces of Persia, the
Khazars were dominant in the northwest, and the Arabs, with a new deter-
mination and cohesion derived from the message of Mohammad, were raid-
ing and beginning to establish themselves in Mesopotamia. Civil wars broke
out between rival great nobles, and floods broke the irrigation works in Mes-
opotamia, turning productive land into swamps. Plague appeared, killing
many in the western provinces and carrying off Kavad himself. The internal
chaos and infighting brought a succession of short-lived monarchs to the
throne (ten in two years), including the former general Shahrvaraz and two
queens, Purandokht and Azarmedokht (a daughter of Khosrow II, Puran-
dokht attempted some sensible measures to restore order in the empire, but
was removed by another general before she could make much headway). Fi-
nally, in 632, Yazdegerd III, a grandson of Khosraw II, was crowned. He was
eight years old.
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3
Islam and Invasions
The Arabs, Turks, and Mongols—The Iranian
Reconquest of Islam, the Sufis, and the Poets
One of the recurring questions in the history of Iran is the problem of conti-
nuity from pre-Islamic Iran to the Islamic period and to modern times. The
great institutions of Persia as the period of Sassanid rule reached its climax
were the monarchy and the Zoroastrian religion. Both of these were swept
away by the Islamic conquest, and within three centuries there was little ap-
parent remnant of them.
67
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68 A History of Iran
But there are some indisputable facts that point the other way. The first
and most important is the language. The Persian language survived, while
many other languages in the lands the Arabs conquered went under, to be
replaced by Arabic. Persian changed from the Middle Persian, or Pahlavi, of
the Parthian and Sassanid periods, acquired a large number of loan words
from Arabic, and re-emerged after two obscure centuries as the elegantly
simple tongue spoken by Iranians today.1 Some would say that Persian be-
came a new language, much as English was transformed in the Middle Ages
after the Norman conquest. People continued to speak Persian, and Persian
came to be written in Arabic script. Modern Persian is remarkably un-
changed since the eleventh century. The poetry in particular that has come
down from that time is readily understandable by modern Iranians, is stud-
ied in school, and is often quoted from memory.
There is another monument to continuity, itself a nexus of language, his-
tory, folk-memory, and poetry—the Shahnameh (Book of Kings) of Fer-
dowsi. This is the greatest single body of poetry from the period of
transition, containing passages and stories familiar to most Iranians even to-
day. Ferdowsi reworked a traditional canon of stories of the kings and heroes
of Iran that is known in fragments from other sources. He wrote deliber-
ately to preserve, as if in a time capsule, as much as he could of the culture of
pre-Islamic Iran. The language of the stories itself avoids all but a very few of
the Arabic loan words that by Ferdowsi’s time had become almost indispens-
able in everyday usage, especially in written usage. Such is the quality of the
poetry that it influenced almost all subsequent Iranian poets. And the char-
acters of the stories—Kay Kavus, Rostam, Sohrab, Siavosh, Khosraw,
Shirin—are as familiar to Iranians today as in Ferdowsi’s time.
But in discussing Ferdowsi we anticipate events, and to understand him it
is necessary to appreciate the significance of Islam and the history of the first
three centuries of Muslim rule.
Mohammad
The Arabs of Mohammad’s time were not just simple bedouin. Moham-
mad himself was the son of a merchant (born in Mecca sometime around
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the year 570), and later he served a rich widow as a guard and leader of her
trading caravans. Eventually, he married her and ran the business himself.
This was a period of change, both social and economic. Towns like Medina
and Mecca had become an important part of life in the Arabian peninsula,
and there was tension between austere nomad values and the more sophis-
ticated urban way of life. This was especially true between the traditional
polytheism of tribes and the monotheism of urban Jews (there were signifi-
cant Jewish communities in the Arabian peninsula—notably at Medina
but also elsewhere). As in Persia, religious ideas traveled through the penin-
sula and beyond with the merchants’ trade goods. Christian hermits rubbed
shoulders with Jews as well as with polytheistic Arabs in the Arabian
towns. Arabs had served both the Sassanids and the Romans as mercenar-
ies, and the Ghassanid and Lakhmid Arab kingdoms had served as buffer
states between the two empires in the south just as Armenia had in the
north. Arabs had settled in the western part of what is now Iraq, and as far
north as Syria.
Muslims believe that Mohammad received his first revelations from the
Angel Gabriel, which appear in the opening five lines of Sura 96 of the
Qor’an, in the hills around Mecca around the year 610. The early revelations
gave the pronouncements of a just God, who at the Day of Judgment would
decide on the basis of men’s actions in life whether they should go to para-
dise or to hell. They condemned false pride, neglect of the poor, and cruelty
to the weak. They emphasized the duty of prayer. Around 613 Mohammad
began preaching the revelation he had received in Mecca, and his reception
there reflected social divisions and tensions. His early converts were mainly
among the poor—among members of weak clans and the younger sons of
richer families. But his preaching threatened the proprietors of the existing
order in Mecca by creating an alternative pole of social authority, and by
condemning the polytheism that among other things gave the ruling fami-
lies an income from religious visitors.
Eventually the hostility to Mohammad from the ruling families of
Mecca made his position there untenable. He fled Mecca, and in 622 was
accepted into Medina by a group of prominent citizens. Life in Medina had
been marred by feuding between rival clans, and it seems that Mohammad’s
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70 A History of Iran
72 A History of Iran
Bla ck Sea
C a s p
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Aleppo phr
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S e a
Expansion of Islam 632-644
74 A History of Iran
. . . at whatever moment he dies eighty maiden angels will come to meet him
with flowers . . . and a golden bedstead, and they will speak to him thus: do not
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fear etc. . . . And his fruitful work, in the form of a wondrous divine princess, a
virgin, will come before him, immortal . . . and she herself will guide him to
heaven.7
This remarkable passage links the idea of the houris of paradise, familiar
from the Qoranic context, with the Mazdaean idea of the daena leading the
soul to heaven. But this text is a Manichaean one, in the Iranian Sogdian
language, from Central Asia. Bausani has given a series of significant paral-
lels between passages in the Zoroastrian scriptures and passages in the
Qor’an.8 Despite the firm, clear, guiding principle of the Mohammadan rev-
elation, other earlier ideas continued to bubble, sometimes to appear again
later in some of the more diverse and eclectic Islamic sects.
The propertied and elite classes of Iran had an interest in converting to
Islam, in order to avoid the jizya. They and more modest folk converted and
often attached themselves to Arab clans or families as mawali (clients),
sometimes taking Arabic names. But most inhabitants of Iran remained
non-Muslim for several centuries. The restraint of the conquerors is proba-
bly another important explanation for the success of the conquest—many of
the subjects of the new empire may have been less heavily taxed than previ-
ously, and ordinary Iranians probably benefited from the replacement of a
strongly hierarchical aristocratic and priestly system by the more egalitarian
Islamic arrangements, with their emphasis on the duty of ordinary Muslims
to the poor. But as in other epochs, the victors wrote the history; if more
contemporary material from the peoples of the conquered lands had sur-
vived, the picture of tolerance might be more shaded. There were massacres
at Ray and Istakhr, both Mazdaean religious centers that resisted more
stubbornly than elsewhere.9
76 A History of Iran
Indian Ocean. From this point on, Iran zamin (the land of Iran) was ruled for
the most part by foreign monarchs for nearly a millennium. But conquest
and the problems of wealth and power it brought also created new tensions
among the victorious Arabs.
The fourth caliph, Ali, was Mohammad’s cousin, and had married his
daughter Fatima. But despite these close ties to the Prophet and his own pi-
ous reputation, Ali’s caliphate was marred by civil war with the followers of
the previous caliph, Uthman. When Ali was assassinated, a close relative of
Uthman, Mu’awiya, declared himself caliph. This was in 661, a date that
marks the beginning of the Umayyad dynasty, named after the family from
which the dynasty was descended—one of the leading families of Mecca
that Mohammad had fought before Mecca’s submission to Islam.
Soon the new empire adopted forms of government resembling those of
its predecessors, the Romans and the Sassanid Persians. The capital moved
to Damascus (at that time, of course, a city formed by centuries of Chris-
tian, Roman, and Byzantine rule) and henceforth the caliphate passed
mainly from father to son. The Umayyads discriminated strongly in favor of
Arabs in the running of the empire, but were criticized among the Arabs for
becoming too worldly and making too many compromises. They distanced
themselves from their origins, became lax personally in their religious obser-
vances, and depended on paid soldiers rather than kinsmen and clan follow-
ers. As the empire and their responsibilities expanded, these changes were
probably inevitable, as was the response—part of the eternal tension in Is-
lam between piety and political authority.
Throughout this period there was dissent over the right of the Umayyads
to rule. One group, the Kharijites, said that the caliph should be chosen by
popular assent from among righteous Muslims, and deposed if he acted
wrongly. Another group was to prove more important in the long run, and
their dissent from orthodox Sunni Islam (named after the sunna—the ex-
ample of the Prophet) eventually created a permanent schism. These Mus-
lims identified with Ali, and the family of the Prophet descended through
him. They believed that Ali should have been the first caliph, and that the
caliphate should have descended in his line, which (through Ali’s wife Fa-
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tima) was also the line of the Prophet himself. Ali’s second son Hosein at-
tempted a revolt in 680 but was overwhelmed at Karbala by Umayyad
troops and killed. This was a crucial event, the full significance of which will
be explored in a later chapter. Eventually the attachment to the family of the
Prophet—to Ali and his descendants—evolved a theology of its own and a
firm belief that the descendants of Ali were the only legitimate authority in
Islam, becoming what we now call Shi‘ism.
Tension and dissent reached a crescendo in the middle years of the
eighth century. In the 740s there was a revolt against the Umayyads in
Kufa, and they suffered external defeats by the Turks in Transoxiana and
by the Byzantines in Anatolia. Then in the late 740s a Persian convert,
Abu Muslim, began a revolt against Umayyad rule in Khorasan, where
the creative dynamic between survivors of the old Persian land owning
gentry (the dehqans) and the new Arab settlers had been particularly pow-
erful, and where much intermarrying and conversion had occurred. There
appears to have been a real fusion of cultures, with Arab settlers adopting
the Persian language, Persian dress, and even some pre-Islamic Persian
festivals.
Abu Muslim led his revolt in the name of the Prophet’s family, thereby
concealing the movement’s final purpose and ensuring a wide appeal. Draw-
ing support from Arab settlers in Khorasan, who resented their taxes and
felt betrayed by the Umayyads, Abu Muslim and his followers defeated local
opposition and, starting from Merv, led their armies westward under a black
banner. They defeated the forces sent against them by the Umayyad caliph
in a series of battles in 749–750, and in the latter year proclaimed a new
caliph in Kufa—Abu’l Abbas (for whom the Abbasid dynasty was named).
Abbas was a descendant not of Ali but of another of Mohammad’s cousins.
Before long the new caliph, uneasy at the continuing strength of Abu Mus-
lim’s support in Khorasan, had him executed (in 755),10 the effect of which
was to endorse orthodox Sunnism and to marginalize once again the follow-
ers of Ali, the Kharijites and other disparate groups that had supported the
revolt originally. But the revolt of Abu Muslim was another important reli-
gious revolution in Iran. He was remembered long afterward by Iranians,
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78 A History of Iran
and still later by Iranian Shi‘ites, as a righteous, brave, and successful revolu-
tionary betrayed by those he put in power.
Instead of Damascus, the new capital of the Abbasid dynasty was estab-
lished in Baghdad, hard by the old Sassanid capital of Ctesiphon (though
the seat of Abbasid government later moved north to Samarra). The center
of gravity of the empire had moved east in a deeper sense, too. As time went
on, Persian influence at the court of the new dynasty became more and more
marked (especially through the Persian Barmakid family of officials), and
some historians have represented the Abbasid supremacy as a cultural re-
conquest of the Arab conquerors by the Persians. The strengthening of Per-
sian influence had begun already under the Umayyads. But now texts
recording Sassanid court practice were translated into Arabic and applied by
the new bureaucrats. This created a more hierarchical pattern of govern-
ment. The caliph was screened by officials from contact with petitioners, a
departure from earlier Umayyad practice in which the caliph had still taken
counsel from tribal leaders in assembly and manipulated their loyalties and
allegiances in age-old patriarchal fashion. Now new offices appeared in the
government of the Abbasids, including that of vizier, or chief adviser or min-
ister, and the administration was divided into separate departments or min-
istries called diwans. These institutions were taken directly from Sassanid
court practice, and were to endure in Islamic rulership for more than a thou-
sand years.
The influence was also apparent in the buildings constructed by the Ab-
basids, and Persian architects built many of the buildings of Baghdad. Even
the circular ground plan of the new city may have been copied from the Sas-
sanian royal city of Ferozabad in Fars. Where the Umayyads had tended to
follow Byzantine architectural models, Abbasid styles were based on Sas-
sanid ones. This is apparent in the open spaces enclosed by arcaded walls, in
the use of stucco decoration, in the way domes were constructed above
straight-walled buildings below, and, above all, in the classic motif of Sas-
sanian architecture, the iwans. These were large open arches, often in the
middle of one side of a court, often with arcades stretching away on each
side, often used as audience halls. As with other cultural inheritances from
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Sassanid Iran, these architectural motifs survived for centuries in the Islamic
world.11
Particularly under the Abbasid caliph Al-Mansur many Persian adminis-
trators and scholars came to the court, mainly from Khorasan and Transoxi-
ana (though they still worked there in Arabic, and many had Arabic names).
These Persians encountered opposition from some Arabs, who called them
Ajam, which means the mute ones, or the mumblers—a disparaging refer-
ence to their poor Arabic. The Persians defended themselves and their cul-
tural identity from Arab chauvinism through the so-called shu’ubiyya
movement, the title of which refers to a verse from the forty-ninth Sura of
the Qor’an, in which Allah demands mutual respect between different peo-
ples (shu’ub). It was primarily a movement among Persian scribes and offi-
cials; their opponents (including some Persians) tended to be the scholars
and philologians. But the shu’ubiyya sometimes went beyond asserting
equality or parity in favor of the superiority of Persian culture, especially lit-
erature. Given the religious history of Persia and the lingering attachment of
many Persians to Mazdaean or sub-Mazdaean beliefs, shu’ubiyya also im-
plied a challenge to Islam, or at least to the form of Islam practiced by the
Arabs. A satirical contemporary recorded the attitude of a typical young
scribe, steeped in the texts that recorded the history and the procedures of
the Sassanid monarchy:
. . . His first task is to attack the composition of the Qor’an and denounce its in-
consistencies. . . . If anyone in his presence acknowledges the pre-eminence of the
Companions of the Prophet he pulls a grimace, and turns his back when their
merits are extolled. . . . And then he straight away interrupts the conversation to
speak of the policies of Ardashir Papagan, the administration of Anushirvan, and
the admirable way the country was run under the Sasanians . . . 12
80 A History of Iran
will and the nature of the Qor’an that were going on at the same time, the
shu’ubiyya was a sign of conflict, change, and creative energy.
Boosted by the creativity of the Persians the Abbasid regime set a stan-
dard and was looked back on later as a golden age. Baghdad grew to be the
largest city in the world outside China—by the ninth century it had a popu-
lation of around four hundred thousand. The Abbasids endeavored to evade
the tensions between piety and government and to cement their support
among all Muslims by abandoning the Umayyad principle of Arab su-
premacy and by establishing the principle of equality between all Muslims.
This same inclusive spirit extended even to taking Christians, Jews, and de-
scendants of Ali into the government—provided they proved loyal to the
regime.
The integration of the huge area of the Arab conquests under the peace-
ful and orderly rule of the Abbasid caliphate brought new and dynamic pat-
terns of trade, as well as a great release of economic energy. The caliphs
encouraged improvements in agriculture, particularly through irrigation,
which created new prosperity especially in Mesopotamia, as well as on the
Iranian plateau. There the following centuries saw the widespread introduc-
tion of rice cultivation, groves of citrus fruits, and other novelties.14 The re-
gion of Khorasan and Transoxiana profited hugely from revitalized trade
along the ancient Silk Route to China, from the agricultural improvements,
and from the mixing of old and new, Arab and Iranian. Because of these
changes, the area entered an economic and intellectual golden age of its own.
The Abbasid system relied first on the local networks of control set up by
provincial governors across the vast territories of the empire, and second on
the bureaucracy that tied those governors to the center in Baghdad. The
governors collected tax locally, deducted for their expenses (including mili-
tary outlays), and remitted the remainder to the Abbasid court. The hand of
central government was relatively light, but these arrangements put consid-
erable power in the hands of the governors, which in the long run was to
erode the authority of the caliphate.
The Abbasid court became rich, but it also became very learned. The
caliphs, especially caliph al-Ma’mun (813–833, himself the son of a Persian
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82 A History of Iran
. . . believe in communal access to women, provided that the women agree, and
in free access to everything in which the self takes pleasure and to which na-
ture inclines, as long as no-one is harmed thereby
And another:
They say that a woman is like a flower, no matter who smells it, nothing is de-
tracted from it. 18
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84 A History of Iran
potential of the new form of the Persian language was ready to be explored,
produced the beginnings of a great outpouring of wonderful poetic litera-
ture, including some of the most sublime poetry ever created. The poetry is
so unfamiliar to most Western readers, so fresh and surprising in its content,
and so important in its effect on later Iranian and Persianate culture across
the region that it warrants more detailed attention.
86 A History of Iran
Rudaki (who died around 940), along with other poets like Shahid Balkhi
and Daqiqi Tusi, benefited from the deliberate Persianizing policy of the
Samanid court. The Samanids gave the poets their patronage and generally
encouraged the use of Persian rather than Arabic. Abolqasem Ferdowsi (c.
935–c. 1020) was less fortunate. He was born in the period of Samanid rule,
but later, when the Samanid regime crumbled, he came under the rule of the
Ghaznavids, a dynasty of Turkic origin. His Shahnameh (which continued
and completed a project begun for the Samanids by Daqiqi) can be seen as
the logical fulfillment of Samanid cultural policy—avoiding Arabic words,
eulogizing the pre-Islamic Persian kings, and going beyond a non-Islamic po-
sition to an explicitly pro-Mazdaean one. Some of the concluding lines of
the Shahnameh, speaking as if from just before the defeat at Qadesiyya and
the coming of Islam, echo the earliest Mazdaean inscriptions of Darius at
Bisitun. This is shocking in an eleventh-century Islamic context (the minbar,
mentioned in the first line, is the raised platform, rather like a church pulpit,
from which prayers are led in the mosque):
It’s no surprise then that Ferdowsi’s great work, when finished, got a less-
than-enthusiastic welcome from the ruling Ghaznavid prince, whose views
were more orthodox. Many of the stories passed down through the centuries
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about the lives of the poets are unreliable, but some of them may at least re-
flect some aspects of real events. One story about the Shahnameh says that
the Ghaznavid sultan, having expected a shorter work of different character,
sent only a small reward to Ferdowsi in return. The poet, disgusted, split the
money between his local wine seller and a bath attendant. The sultan even-
tually read a particularly brilliant passage from the Shahnameh, realized its
greatness, and sent Ferdowsi a generous gift, but too late—as the pack ani-
mals bearing Ferdowsi’s treasure entered his town through one gate, his
body was carried out for burial through another.
The great themes of the Shahnameh are the exploits of proud heroes on
horseback with lance and bow, their conflicts of loyalty between their con-
sciences and their kings, their affairs with feisty women who are as slim as
cypresses and radiant as the moon, and royal courts full of fighting and
feasting—razm o bazm. It is not difficult to read into this the nostalgia of a
class of bureaucrats and scholars descended from the small gentry landown-
ers (the dehqans) who had provided the proud cavalry of the Sassanid
armies. Reduced now from the sword to the pen, they watch Arabs and
Turks play the great games of war and politics.
88 A History of Iran
has helped to fix and unify the language, to supply models of morality and
conduct, and to uphold a sense of Iranian identity—reaching back beyond
the Islamic conquest—that might otherwise have faded with the Sassanids.
The poetry of the Shahnameh, and its themes of heroism on horseback,
love, loyalty, and betrayal, has much in common with the romances of me-
dieval Europe, and it is thought-provoking that it first attained fame a few de-
cades before the First Crusade brought an increased level of contact between
western Europe and the lands at the eastern end of the Mediterranean. There
is also a theory that the troubadour tradition, and thus the immensely fruit-
ful medieval European trope of courtly love, originated at least in part with
the Sufis of Arab Spain.22 But it may just be a case of parallel development.
The Ghaznavids did not reverse the Samanid pattern of patronage and
continued to encourage poets writing in Persian. But the later poets were
less strict about linguistic purity and more content to use commonplace
Arabic loan words. Further west the Buyid dynasty, originating among Shi‘a
Muslims in Tabarestan, had expanded to absorb Mesopotamia and take
Baghdad (in 945), ending the independent rule of the Abbasid caliphs and
ruling from then on in their name. But the great literary revival continued to
be centered in the east.
Naser-e Khosraw, born near Balkh in 1003, is believed to have written
perhaps thirty thousand lines of verse in his lifetime, of which about eleven
thousand have survived. He was brought up as a Shi‘a, made the pilgrimage
to Mecca in 1050, and later became an Ismaili before returning to Badakh-
shan to write. Most of his poetry is philosophical and religious:
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90 A History of Iran
For many years the Abbasid caliphs and the other dynasties had em-
ployed Turkish mercenaries, taken as slaves from Central Asia, to fight their
wars and police their territories. Turks had in turn become important in the
politics of the empire, and on occasion had threatened to take control—the
Ghaznavids had succeeded in doing so in the eastern part of the empire. But
in the middle of the eleventh century a confederation of Turkic tribes under
the leadership of the Seljuk Turks went farther. Defeating the Ghaznavids
in the northeast, they broke into the heartlands of the empire and took
Baghdad before fighting their way farther west. In 1071 they defeated the
Byzantines and occupied most of the interior of Asia Minor.
Centuries of contact with the Abbasid regime and its successors had Is-
lamized the Turks and had made them relatively assimilable. The second
Seljuk sultan, Alp Arslan, had as his chief vizier a Persian, Hasan Tusi
Nizam ol-Mulk (1018–1092), and before long the dynasty was ruling ac-
cording to the Persianate Abbasid model like the others before it. Nizam ol-
Mulk wrote a book of guidance for Alp Arslan’s successor. Called the
Siyasat-Nameh, which translates as The Book of Government, it (along with
the slightly earlier Qabus-name) was for centuries the model for the Mirror-
of-Princes genre of literature, providing manuals of guidance for rulers. It
also influenced European versions of the same kind of thing, down to the
time of Machiavelli and his Principe.
Nizam ol-Mulk was a friend of Omar Khayyam (c. 1048–c. 1124/1129)
and there are some famous stories of dubious veracity about the friendship.24
But it is probably true that when Nizam ol-Mulk became vizier he gave
some financial help to Omar Khayyam, and possibly some protection, too.
Among Iranians it is commonplace to say that Omar Khayyam was a more
distinguished mathematician and astronomer than a poet. To assess the va-
lidity of this is like trying to compare apples with billiard balls. He did work
on Euclidean geometry, cubic equations, binomial expansion, and quadratic
equations that experts in mathematics regard as influential and important.
He developed a new calendar for the Seljuk sultan, based on highly accurate
observations of the sun, that was at least as accurate as the Gregorian calen-
dar ordained in sixteenth-century Europe by the Catholic church.25 And it
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seems he was probably the first to demonstrate the theory that the nightly
progression of the constellations through the sky was due to the earth spin-
ning around its axis, rather than the movement of the skies around a fixed
earth as had previously been assumed.
Omar Khayyam’s dry skepticism in his poetry makes his voice unique
among the other Persian poets, but also reflects a self-confidence drawn per-
haps from his preeminent position in his other studies—his knowledge that
in them he had surpassed what was known before. His name is famous in
the West through the translations of Edward Fitzgerald, which were taken
by readers to represent a spirit of eat, drink, and be merry hedonism. This is
not quite right. Fitzgerald’s are free translations, and his nineteenth-century
idiom (fine though his verses are), with its dashes and exclamation marks,
ohs and ahs, to a degree misrepresents the sober force of the originals. Here,
for example, is Fitzgerald:
92 A History of Iran
There are dozens of quatrains that one could bring forward to illustrate
the subtlety and intellectual power of this great man, but this cannot be a
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book about just Omar Khayyam. The following poem belongs to a collection
from an early manuscript attributed to Omar Khayyam by the British
scholar Arberry, which since Arberry’s time has been considered doubtful.
But it is known from other manuscripts, too, and many scholars still include
this poem with Omar Khayyam’s best. If it is not by him, it nonetheless pre-
sents a defiant personal manifesto close to the spirit he expressed elsewhere:
The eleventh century saw the first great upsurge in the unique mystical
movement that is Sufism,30 and in this poem, as elsewhere, Omar Khayyam
uses terms that were commonplace in Sufi poetry and were used as key con-
cepts, often metaphorically. Mey-e moghaneh, for example, means Magian
wine—forbidden wine bought from the Zoroastrians. Rend means a wild
young man, a rogue or rake. Kharabat is the house of ruin, the tavern; and the
saqi is the young boy who serves the wine and is the object of homoerotic
longing. But although some commentators have claimed Omar Khayyam as
a Sufi, and notwithstanding he may have had some sympathy for the Sufis,
his voice is too much his own, too unique to be set in any religious category.
And his skepticism is too strong.
Sufism is a huge and complex phenomenon, with very different aspects at
different times and in different places, from eleventh-century Asia Minor to
North Africa to modern Pakistan and beyond. Its origins are unclear, but Is-
lam sustained a mystical element from the very beginning—as is shown,
some would say, by the revelation of the Qor’an to Mohammad himself, in
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94 A History of Iran
the wilderness outside Mecca. The essence of Sufism was a seeking after
precisely this kind of personal spiritual encounter, and an abandonment of
self and all kinds of worldly egotism in the presence of the divine.
But in practices and imagery it also partook of the religious turbulence of
the centuries after the Islamic conquest, reflecting popular pre-Islamic ideas
and influences, including the mystically inclined movements of Neoplaton-
ism and gnosticism. These influences, along with a deliberate anarchic and
antinomian tendency, set it up from the start in tension with the text-based,
scholarly, urban tradition of the ulema and the urban preachers who
solemnly read and re-read the Qor’an and hadith to assert anew the correct
definition of shari‘a (Islamic law). There was tension and conflict, and a
number of Sufis or mystically inclined thinkers—like al-Hallaj and
Sohravardi, for example—were condemned as heretics by the ulema, and
were executed (in 922 and 1191, respectively). It may be that the renewed
rise of Sufism in the eleventh and twelfth centuries had something to do
with a reaction to the increasing concentration of Islamic practice and Is-
lamic study in the madresehs, directly under the eye of the ulema, that was
taking place at this time.
The significance of Sufism within the Islamic lands in this period has
sometimes been neglected, but in reality it was all-pervasive. In Persia its
cultural influence is indicated by its effect on Persian poetry, but everywhere
in the land there were Sufi khanaqas—lodging houses for wandering Sufis
that also served local people for religious gatherings. In the larger towns
there might be khanaqas for different Sufi orders, as well as bazaar guilds
and other associations that often had Sufi connections. Even small villages
might have khanaqas. There are parallels here with the friaries set up for the
mendicant orders in Europe in the Middle Ages. Like the friars, the Sufis
were intimately involved in the religious lives of ordinary people and were
responsible for missionary activity in the countryside and beyond Persia.
Given the low level of literacy at the time, and the fact that the population
lived overwhelmingly in the countryside, it becomes plain that the Sufis were
central to the diffusion of Islam outside the towns and cities. The center of
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their activity was in Persia, and especially in Khorasan, but they probably
were the prime means by which Persianate culture spread and consolidated
its popular influence from the Bosphorus to Delhi and beyond.31
Many Sufis, in particular many of the Sufi poets, openly scorned what
they saw as the self-important egotism of the ulema. The Sufis provoked
and attacked them for their obsession with rules and their vain pride in ob-
serving them, which forgot the selflessness necessary for true spirituality. It
is not difficult to see why some orthodox Muslims (especially Wahhabis and
their sympathizers since the eighteenth century) have anathematized and
persecuted Sufism. But in the period we are dealing with here, the mission-
ary activity of traveling Sufis (known also as dervishes) was important,
probably crucial, in the conversion of new Muslims. This was true in the re-
moter rural parts like Tabarestan, where orthodox Islam had been slow to
penetrate, but especially in newly conquered territories like Anatolia, and
among the Turks in their Central Asian homelands in the far northeast.
The first great theorist of Sufism was al-Ghazali (1058–1111), a native of
Tus in Khorasan (though there were major Sufi figures much earlier, Junayd,
for example, who died around 910). The relationship between orthodox
Sunnism and Sufism was not one of simple opposition, and al-Ghazali was
primarily an orthodox Sunni of the Shafi’i mazhhab, who wrote works attack-
ing the Mu’tazilis, Avicenna, and the introduction of ideas from Greek philos-
ophy. But he also wrote an influential Sufi work called Kimiya-ye sa’adat—The
Alchemy of Happiness. In general he tried to remove the obstacles between
orthodoxy and Sufism, presenting the latter as a legitimate aspect of the for-
mer. In the early centuries of Sufism, Shi‘a Muslims tended to be more hos-
tile to the Sufi dervishes than the Sunnis.32
Sana’i was the first great poet with a clear Sufi allegiance, and some have
compared his literary style with that of al-Ghazali. Sana’i’s long poem
Hadiqat al-haqiqa (The Garden of Truth, completed in 1131) is a classic of Sufi
poetry, but he wrote a large body of poems beyond that, and in them it is
easy to see the fusion of the traditions of love poetry with the impulses of
mysticism:
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96 A History of Iran
Here, too, wine has become a metaphor for love, taking the imagery into
another dimension of complexity. Where an orthodox Muslim might favor
abstinence (zohd) in accordance with religious law, Sana’i says that in going
beyond law into infidelity (kofr)—leaving behind his venal, carnal soul
(nafs)—the Sufi can find another way to God. The point is that both love
and wine can be ways in which a man may forget himself. They are familiar
experiences in which the sense of self is changed or obliterated. Such an ex-
perience can give a taste of (and therefore provide a metaphor for) the loss of
self experienced by the mystic in the face of God—the loss of self that is
necessary for genuine religious experience, that is yearned for as the lover
longs for the beloved.
The Seljuk period produced a profusion of poets, and it is not possible to
do justice to them all, but Nizami Ganjavi, who composed his Khosraw va
Shirin in 1180 and Layla va Majnoun in 1188, is too important to be over-
looked. Though he wrote many others, both these long poems retold much
older stories—the former a tale from the Sassanid court and the latter of
Arab origin. Both are love stories that became hugely popular, but they have
deeper resonances, reflecting Nizami’s religious beliefs. Layla and Majnoun
fall in love, but then are separated, and Majnoun goes mad (Majnoun means
“mad”) and wanders in the wilderness. He becomes a poet, writing to Layla
through a third party:
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Oh my love, with your breasts like jasmine! Loving you, my life fades, my lips
wither, my eyes are full of tears. You cannot imagine how much I am “Majnoun.”
For you, I have lost myself. But that path can only be taken by those who forget
themselves. In love, the faithful have to pay with the blood of their hearts; other-
wise their love is not worth a grain of rye. So you are leading me, revealing the
true faith of love, even if your faith should remain hidden forever.34
Without hope in his love (Layla’s father will not let them marry), Maj-
noun spiritualizes it. In going into the desert, losing his selfhood in mad-
ness, stepping outside all ordinary conventions, and writing poetry, he has
effectively become a Sufi.35 So even this overtly profane story has a spiritual
dimension that is not immediately apparent. But to have psychological force,
the metaphor and the spiritual message first require our sympathy with the
lovers’ predicament. The poem is not simply about the Sufi’s approach to
God. It is that, but also a love story—and therein lies its human appeal. It
has been translated into almost every language in the Islamic world, as well
as many others beyond it.
Farid al-Din Attar, who lived in Nishapur from around 1158 to around
1221 or 1229, wrote more than forty-five thousand lines of verse in his life-
time. Establishing the elements of a “religion of love,” Attar strongly influ-
enced all subsequent Sufi poets. He developed the idea of the qalandar, the
wild man, the outcast, whose only guide is the ethic of that religion:
The classic of Attar’s poetry is the Mantiq al-tayr (The Conference of the Birds),
one of the best-known Persian poems of all. Embedded within the charming
story of the birds questing for the mysterious phoenix—the simorgh—is the
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98 A History of Iran
story of Shaykh San‘an, which brings out the full meaning of Sufism in its logi-
cal extreme. Deliberately provocative and shocking in the Islamic context, the
story was important and influential in the later development of Sufism.
Shaykh San‘an is a learned, well-respected holy man who has always done
the right thing. He has made the pilgrimage to Mecca fifty times, has fasted
and prayed, and has taught four hundred pupils. He argues fine points of reli-
gious law and is admired by everyone. But he has a recurring dream, in which
he lives in Rum (by which was probably meant the Christian part of Anatolia,
or possibly Constantinople, rather than Rome itself ) and worships in a Chris-
tian church there. This is disturbing, and he concludes that to resolve the
problem he must go to the Christian territory. He sets off, but just short of his
goal he sees a Christian girl—“In beauty’s mansion she was like a sun. . . . ”
His companions try to get Shaykh San‘an to see reason, but he answers
them in terms even more shocking and subversive. They tell him to pray, and
he agrees—but instead of toward Mecca, as a Muslim should, he asks to
know where her face is, that he may pray in her direction. Another asks him
whether he does not regret turning away from Islam, and he answers that he
only regrets his previous folly, and that he had not fallen in love before. An-
other says he has lost his wits, and he says he has, and also his fame—but
fraud and fear along with them. Another urges him to confess his shame be-
fore God, and he replies, “God Himself has lit this flame.”
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The shaykh lives for a month with the dogs in the dust of the street in
front of his beloved’s house, finally falling ill. He begs her to show him some
pity, a little affection, but she laughs and mocks him, saying that he is old—
he should be looking for a shroud, not for love. He begs again, and she says
he must do four things to win her trust—burn the Qor’an, drink wine, seal
up faith’s eye, and bow down to images. The shaykh hesitates, but then agrees.
Invited in, he takes wine and gets drunk:
. . . on the next day, 25 February 1221, the Mongols arrived before the gates of
Merv. Tolui in person [the son of Genghiz Khan], with an escort of five hundred
Mong ols & Ti murids
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101
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horsemen, rode the whole distance around the walls, and for six days the
Mongols continued to inspect the defences, reaching the conclusion that they
were in good repair and would withstand a lengthy siege. On the seventh day
the Mongols launched a general assault. The townspeople made two sallies
from different gates, being in both cases at once driven back by the Mongol
forces. They seem then to have lost all will to resist. The next day the governor
surrendered the town, having been reassured by promises that were not in fact
to be kept. The whole population was now driven out into the open country,
and for four days and nights the people continued to pour out of the town.
Four hundred artisans and a number of children were selected to be carried
off as slaves, and it was commanded that the whole of the remaining popula-
tion, men, women, children, should be put to the sword. They were distrib-
uted, for this purpose, among the troops, and to each individual soldier was
allotted the execution of three to four hundred persons. These troops in-
cluded levies from the captured towns, and Juvaini records that the people of
Sarakhs, who had a feud with the people of Merv, exceeded the ferocity of the
heathen Mongols in the slaughter of their fellow-Muslims. Even now the or-
deal of Merv was not yet over. When the Mongols withdrew, those who had
escaped death by concealing themselves in holes and cavities emerged from
their hiding places. They amounted in all to some five thousand people. A de-
tachment of Mongols, part of the rearguard, now arrived before the town.
Wishing to have their share of the slaughter they called upon these unfortu-
nate wretches to come out into the open country, each carrying a skirtful of
grain. And having them thus at their mercy they massacred these last feeble
remnants of one of the greatest cities of Islam. . . .39
Alborz mountains, just as the Seljuks had tried and failed to do for many
years before 1220. Some smaller rulers who had submitted to the Mongols
were allowed to continue as vassals, and in the west the rump of the Seljuk
Empire survived in Anatolia on the same basis as the Sultanate of Rum. In
1258 the Mongols took Baghdad. They killed the last Abbasid caliph by
wrapping him in a carpet and trampling him to death with horses.
Yet within a few decades, astoundingly, or perhaps predictably, the Per-
sian class of scholars and administrators had pulled off their trick of con-
quering the conquerors—for the third time. Before long they made
themselves indispensable. A Shi‘a astrologer, Naser od-Din Tusi, captured
by the Mongols at the end of the campaign against the Ismailis, had taken
service with the Mongol prince Hulagu, and served as his adviser in the
campaign against Baghdad. Naser od-Din Tusi then set up an astronomical
observatory for Hulagu in Azerbaijan. One member of the Persian Juvayni
family became governor of Baghdad and wrote the history of the Mongols;
another became the vizier of a later Mongol Il-Khan, or king. Within a cou-
ple of generations Persian officials were as firmly in place at the court of the
Il-Khans as they had been with the Seljuks, the Ghaznavids, and earlier dy-
nasties. The Mongols initially retained their paganism, but in 1295 their
Buddhist ruler converted to Islam along with his army. In 1316 his son Ol-
jeitu died and was buried in a mausoleum that still stands in Soltaniyeh—
one of the grandest monuments of Iranian Islamic architecture and a
monument also to the resilience and assimilating power of Iranian culture.
Another important invasion took place a little earlier than the Mongol in-
vasion of Khorasan—the invasion and conquest of India by Muslim Per-
sians and Turks, establishing what became known as the Delhi Sultanate.
We have seen already that the Parthians and Sassanids at different times in-
vaded northern India and established dynasties that ruled there. The Ghaz-
navids and their provincial governors also raided into northern India, and
one such governor, Mohammad Ghuri, took that practice a step further in
the latter part of the twelfth century, conquering Multan, Sind, Lahore, and
Delhi. A series of dynasties followed thereafter, expanding the reach of the
Delhi Sultanate east into Bengal and south to the Deccan, creating a unique
Indo-Islamic culture that fused Persian, Hindustani, Arabic, and Turkic ele-
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lines, which come from the opening of his masnavi, express the longing of
the soul for union with God:
And this is the simple idea at the core of Rumi’s thought—the unity of
God, the unity of the human spirit with God, and the yearning for reunion
with God (Plato puts a similar idea into the mouth of Aristophanes in the
Symposium). Rumi expresses the same idea in a different way in the following
ruba’i (the Beloved was a common Sufi term signifying God):
We’ve moved our bedrolls from the mosque to the tavern of ruin [kharabat]
We’ve scribbled all over the page of asceticism and erased all miracles of piety.
Now we sit with the lovers in the lane of the Magians
And drink a cup from the hands of the dissolute people of the tavern.
If the heart should tweak the ear of respectability now, why not?44
All fear of God, all self-denial I deny; bring wine, nothing but wine
For in all sincerity I repent my worship which is but hypocrisy.
Yes, bring me wine, for I have renounced all renunciation
And all my vaunted self-righteousness seems to me but swagger and self-display.45
Iraqi went traveling with the other beggars. He wrote many poems about
the beauty of young men and boys, and the homoerotic strain in Persian poetry
is especially plain in his work. But his contemporary defenders claimed that
he only admired the boys longingly from afar. Eventually, he came under the
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influence of a follower of the Sufi philosopher Ibn Arabi, perhaps the great-
est thinker of Islamic mysticism, who had died in 1240.
Ibn Arabi’s thought—steeped primarily in the Qor’an and the tradi-
tions of the hadith, but influenced also by Neoplatonism and the thinking
of earlier Sufis—elaborated what appears very like a version of Plato’s
theory of forms: that phenomena in the material world are manifestations
of original, essential truths in a higher sphere (itself an idea possibly de-
rived from Iranian Mazdaism, as we saw earlier). Therefore true reality lay
paradoxically in the spiritual, metaphysical world beyond, of which the
physical world was a mere shadow. Central also to Ibn Arabi’s thinking
were ideas of the oneness of God’s creation (wahdat al-wujud) and of the
imagination (khiyal).
Another very significant concept that Ibn Arabi developed from the for-
mulae of earlier thinkers was the idea of the Perfect Man (al-insan al-kamil).
According to this notion the sphere of existence that is not God is divided
between the macrocosm, the world beyond Man, and the microcosm, the
inner world of Man. These two worlds reflect each other, and through reli-
gious contemplation and self-development, Man can “polish his soul” until
the two worlds are congruent. Man can improve and perfect himself until
he takes on the form of the divine, becoming the Perfect Man.46 He can
then become a conduit for the will of God in the world. This state is
achieved by religious discipline and mystical devotion, an idea that was to
have great significance in later Islamic thinking. Ayatollah Ruhollah
Khomeini was fascinated by these ideas and wrote one of his earliest books
about a later commentary on the Fusus al-Hikam (Seals of Wisdom) of Ibn
Arabi.
Consider also the following extract, about the possibility of a mystic be-
ing able to visit the alternative Earth of True Reality:
Then he meets those Forms who stand and keep watch at the entrances to the
ways of approach, God having especially assigned them this task. One of them
hastens towards the newcomer, clothes him in a robe suitable to his rank,
takes him by the hand, and walks with him over that Earth and they do in it
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as they will. He lingers to look at the divine works of art; every stone, every
tree, every village, every single thing he comes across, he may speak with, if he
wishes, as a man converses with a companion. . . . When he has attained his
object and thinks of returning to his dwelling place, his companion goes with
him and takes him back to the place at which he entered. There she says good-
bye to him; she takes off the robe in which she had clothed him and departs
from him . . . 47
The idea that the world of experience was a mere shadow of the real world
of forms beyond had great potential for metaphor in spiritual poetry, and
traces of this idea can be seen in many of the Persian poets. They reached
their apotheosis with Shabestari, who in his Gulshan-e raz put forward a full-
fledged aesthetic according to which eyebrows, curls, or the down on the
beloved’s upper lip might represent heavenly or metaphysical concepts.
Iraqi was devoted to the ideas of Ibn Arabi for the rest of his life. He
wrote his Divine Flashes in exposition of them, and when he died in 1289 he
was buried next to Ibn Arabi in Damascus. But he never settled down to a
conventional life. One story says that when he arrived in Cairo on his trav-
els, the sultan honored him by setting him on his own horse and giving him
some splendid clothes; but as he rode through the streets accompanied by
many other scholars and dignitaries on foot, Iraqi suddenly snatched off his
turban and put it on the saddle in front of him. Seeing him traveling in such
splendor, but bareheaded, the people watching laughed. When the sultan
heard about it he was displeased, because it made him look ridiculous. Iraqi
explained that he had removed the turban to avoid sin. As he rode along it
occurred to him that no one had ever been so honored, and as he felt his ego
rise up he had deliberately humbled himself.48
Some commentators feel that Iraqi’s poetry was better and livelier before
his encounter with the thought of Ibn Arabi—that it became overburdened
metaphysically afterward. But there is something especially touching about
Iraqi and his poetry, especially his early work. It shows perhaps more clearly
than any other Sufi poetry the urge to dispense with the self-regarding piety
and the holier-than-thou observance of mere rules pursued by the orthodox.
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It also shocks and provokes the orthodox by blatant flouting of their rules.
In this, the impulse driving the Sufis is very close to the teachings of Jesus
against the Pharisees (“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!”). Jesus is
revered by many Iranian Muslims (not just Sufis) for this trait—for
speaking from the heart of spirituality and avoiding getting caught up in
its trappings.
With Sa’di and Hafez we begin to run out of superlatives. Both have had
a profound influence on the thinking of ordinary Iranians, and phrases
from their poems are common sayings. Teachers of the Persian language
used to use Sa’di’s Golestan (Garden of Roses) to teach their pupils, having
them memorize excerpts in order to help them absorb vocabulary and re-
member grammar and patterns of usage. His works were some of the first
to be translated into European languages in the eighteenth century. One
passage from the Golestan appears above the entrance to the United Nations
in New York:
And it continues:
Sa’di was born in Shiraz (a city saved from Mongol destruction by the
wise decision of its ruler to submit to them early), probably sometime be-
tween 1213 and 1219. In his poems there are many stories about his travels,
some of which are dubious. He was back in Shiraz by around 1256, and died
there in 1292. He was familiar with Sufism but was not openly a devotee.
His Bustan (The Orchard) is an extended poem of moral tales, not only en-
couraging wisdom and virtue, humility and kindness, but also common
sense and pragmatism. Some of these features emerge in the following story
of Omar and the beggar (Omar was the second caliph, after Abu Bakr—one
of the four Righteous Caliphs of Sunni Islam):
Some have thought that Sa’di’s pragmatism strayed too far in the direction
of relativism and amorality, citing for example the well-known dictum from
the first story in the Golestan that “an expedient falsehood is preferable to a mischie-
vous truth.”50 But Sa’di is not the only literary figure to have made such a sug-
gestion—one could draw a similar moral from playwright Henrik Ibsen’s
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Wild Duck without concluding that Ibsen was an amoral relativist. Sa’di’s
views are diverse and sometimes appear contradictory, but that is a reflection
of the complexities he addressed. It is right that Sa’di became known for his
epigrams because he had a gift for communicating pithy thoughts in vivid
language:
And:
fare, and mass killings to rival that of the Mongols in ferocity and misery.
The scholar A. J. Arberry believed that one of Hafez’s last ghazals was
prompted by these new disasters:
But before the skies darkened again with the smoke of war and massacre,
Hafez took the previous patterns of Persian poetry and elevated them to
new, unsurpassed heights of expression. In the following ghazal the familiar
images of wine and the Beloved ripple, interfere, overlap, reflect each other,
and thereby transcend the immediate eroticism, pointing beyond desire to
the world of the spirit. It is saying that if love is offered, it must be taken; and
if taken, it must be drunk to the dregs because love demands full commit-
ment. Only then can its true significance be grasped—that love is the essen-
tial gift, the essence of life, given to us before time:
Poems like this unsettle many Iranians even today.55 Some religious Irani-
ans will say directly that these poems are not really about wine or erotic love
at all—that the meaning is entirely on a spiritual level, and that the poets
themselves never touched wine. Whether or not that is true (and personally
I doubt it), the fact is that the poems only work if the eroticism and the alco-
holic intoxication are real. Rather, they work because they are real, because
they ring true and speak directly to our own experience as only great litera-
ture can. They seem to remind us of something we had always known but
had somehow forgotten. Otherwise the metaphors would be just a device,
the rebellion against convention no more than a pose. This poetry has more
bite, more impact than that. Hafez wrote the following in a period of offi-
cious imposition of religious orthodoxy (and some have pointed up its rele-
vance in contemporary Iran):
Persians did not stop writing poetry in the fifteenth century. There were
many important poets after Hafez—notably Jami, and later Bidel. By that
time a body of literature of unparalleled importance had been created. It is
literature of almost inconceivable quantity, great diversity, and sublime qual-
ity. One could compare this body of literature to a human brain and think of
it in the way that some theorists now consider human consciousness—that
consciousness is not located in any one part of the brain, but is instead the
consequence of the impossibly complex interaction of millions of different
cells and their sparking synapses. Somehow, out of this poetry and the com-
binations and interactions of the ideas and metaphors contained within
them emerged the Iranian soul.
Every hundred years or so, the reading public in the West discovers an-
other of these Persian poets. In 1800 it was Hafez, in 1900 Omar Khayyam,
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in 2000 it is Rumi. The choice depends not so much on the merits or true
nature of the poets or their poetry, but more on their capacity to be inter-
preted in accordance with passing Western literary and cultural fashions. So
Hafez was interpreted to fit with the mood of Romanticism, Omar
Khayyam with the aesthetic movement, and it has been Rumi’s misfortune
to be befriended by numb-brained New Agery. Of course, an attentive and
imaginative reader can avoid the solipsistic trap, especially if he or she can
read even a little Persian. But the mirror of language and translation means
that the reader may see only a hazy but consoling reflection of himself and
his times, rather than looking into the true depths of the poetry—which
might be more unsettling.
On the surface, the religion of love of these Sufi poets from eight hun-
dred years ago might seem rather distant and archaic. That is belied less by
the burgeoning popularity of Rumi and Attar than by the deeper message of
these poets. Darwinists who, like Richard Dawkins, believe Darwinism in-
eluctably entails atheism might be upset by the idea, but what could be more
appropriate to an intellectual world that has abandoned creationism for evo-
lution theory than a religion of love? Darwinism and evolutionary theory
have demonstrated the intense focus of all life on the act of reproduction,
the act of love. The spirit of that act and the drive behind it are the spirit of
life itself. What could be more fitting than a religion that uses the emotional
drive behind that act as a metaphor for a higher spirituality, and its longing
as a longing for union with the Godhead—“This gift the divine ones gave us be-
fore Eternity.”
Timur
After about 1300 (notably under the ruler Ghazan Khan) the Mongol Il-
Khans, becoming Islamized and Persianized, reversed their extractive, de-
structive, slash-and-burn style of rule. They began trying to reconstruct cities
they had destroyed, trying to resurrect systems of irrigation and agriculture
that had been abandoned. They had some success, and the new capital Tabriz
certainly prospered. Azerbaijan, with its wetter climate, was favored generally
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by the conquering horsemen for the better pasture it offered. The great histo-
rian Rashid al-Din (a converted Jew) enjoyed the patronage of the Il-Khans
and, building on the earlier works of Juvaini and others, wrote a huge and de-
finitive history. The cultural flow was not all one way—Persian miniature
painting was permanently influenced by an imported Chinese aesthetic, and
there were other examples. But Iran under the Il-Khans, for all the signs of
regeneration, was a poorer, harsher place than before. The empire of the Il-
Khans began to fragment with an almost deterministic inevitability. Local
vassal rulers slowly made themselves independent of the center, as had hap-
pened before under the Seljuks and the Abbasids.
In the mid-fourteenth century in Khorasan, around Sabzavar, a rebel
movement called the sarbedari (heads-in-noose) arose. It displayed egalitar-
ian tendencies and co-opted Shi‘a and Sufi elements.58 Like some later and
earlier movements, the sarbedari show the eclectic nature of popular,
provincial religion in Iran at this time. Elsewhere, the Shi‘a and the Sufis
tended to be in opposition, but the sarbedari seem to have had little diffi-
culty fusing the apparently contradictory tenets of the different beliefs in-
volved, and this creative ferment of popular religion was to prove important
later, too. The sarbedari are also significant in another way—they represent
again a spirit of popular resistance to the invaders, independent of contin-
gent dynastic leadership. This same spirit was there after the Arab invasion,
at the beginning of the Mongol period,59 and it appears again later in Iranian
history. This might prompt questions about nationalism that could easily
absorb the rest of this book.60 What we call nationalism today is in my view
too specifically a constructed phenomenon of the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries to be considered without anachronism in the fourteenth century
or other earlier periods. But we have seen that there was a sense of Iranian-
ness, beyond local or dynastic loyalty, in the time of the Sassanids and be-
fore; it was part of what later inspired the shu’ubiyya, the Samanids, and
Ferdowsi. Nationalism is the wrong word, but to deny any Iranian identity
in this era requires some serious contortions of evidence and logic.
From 1380, the hopeful vassal dynasty builders, the resurgent cities and
peasants, and the bold sarbedari were all alike submerged by the next invading
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areas of sedentary settlement, and conquer cities. But having done so, their
leaders had to consolidate their support. They had to protect themselves
against being supplanted by other members of the tribe, and therefore gave
patronage to other groups—city dwellers, bureaucratic officials, and the
ulema. They also used building projects and a magnificent court to impress
their subjects with their prestige, and employed mercenaries as soldiers, be-
cause they were more reliable. So the original asabiyya of the conquerors
was diluted and lost. Eventually the ruling dynasty came to believe its own
myth and spent increasingly on vain display, weakening its strength outside
the capital city and within it. The ulema and ordinary citizens, disillu-
sioned with the dynasty’s decadence, became ready to welcome another
wave of conquering nomads, who would start up a new dynasty and set the
cycle off all over again.
The theory—of which the above is a greatly simplified version—does not
address all the elements of the cycle of invasions as they affected Iran. We
have seen how the prosperity of the Silk Route encouraged plundering inva-
sions as well as trade, and how the vulnerability of Iran (and particularly
Khorasan) flowed from its central geographical position, just as geography
gave it great economic and cultural advantages. The Abbasids and their suc-
cessors were weakened repeatedly by the measures they used to try to over-
come the difficulty of gathering taxes. Officials tended to become corrupt
and siphon off tax revenue, so the rulers gave the responsibility to tax farm-
ers instead; they then tended to plunder the peasant farmers, quickly run-
ning down the productivity of agriculture. The rulers could grant land
holdings (iqta, soyurgal) to soldiers in return for military service, but this
tended to mean in time that the soldiers came to think of themselves as
farmers or landowners rather than soldiers. Or they could do a similar thing
on a grander scale and grant whole provinces to trusted families in return for
fiscal tribute and military support. But as we have seen, the likelihood then
was that the provincial governors would grow powerful enough to become
independent and even take over the state themselves.
Ibn Khaldun’s theory does not fully explain the history of this period on
its own, and it may apply better to the Islamic states of North Africa, where
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the historian lived for most of his life. But it is a useful model nonetheless,
and it also accounts for some deep attitudes among the people themselves.
Ibn Khaldun did not invent those attitudes, he observed them. The nomads
often were regarded (especially by themselves, of course) as having a primi-
tive martial virtue. The court was regarded as a decadent place that tended
to corrupt its members. The ulema might often be regarded as authoritative
arbitrators in a crisis. These were mental, social, and cultural structures that
in themselves helped to influence events.
For our purposes, the most important thing to emphasize is the resilience
and intellectual power of the small class of Persian scholar-bureaucrats.
Nostalgic for their heroic Sassanid ancestors, escaping from official duplicity
and courtiership into either dreams of love and gardens, religious mysticism,
the design of splendid palaces and mosques, or the complexities of mathe-
matics, astronomy, and medicine, they bounced back from crisis after crisis,
accommodated to their conquerors, made themselves indispensable again,
and eventually reasserted something like control over them. In the process,
they ensured (whether based in Baghdad, Balkh, Tabriz, or Herat) the sur-
vival of their language, their culture, and an unrivaled intellectual heritage. It
is one of the most remarkable phenomena in world history. Behind the his-
tory described in this chapter, the Arab conquest and the succession of em-
pires—Abbasid, Ghaznavid, Seljuk, Mongol, Timurid—lies the story of
what ultimately proved to be a more important empire: the Iranian Empire
of the Mind.
After Timur, the process followed its usual pattern. The conquerors took
on the characteristics of the conquered. Timur’s son Shahrokh ruled from
Herat and patronized the beginnings of another Persianate cultural flower-
ing that continued under his successors and produced great architecture,
manuscript illustrations, and painted miniatures, prefiguring later cultural
developments in the Moghul and Safavid empires. As others before, the
Timurid Empire gradually fragmented into a patchwork of dynastic successor-
states. In the latter part of the fifteenth century, two of them—two great
confederations of Mongolized Turkic tribes, the Aq-Qoyunlu and the Qara-
Qoyunlu (White Sheep and Black Sheep Turks, respectively)—slugged it out
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for hegemony over the war-ravaged Iranian plateau. The White Sheep came
out on top, but were then overwhelmed by a new dynasty from Turkic Ana-
tolia, the Safavids. But to understand the Safavids it is necessary first to go
right back to the seventh century again for a deeper understanding of the
history and development of Shi‘ism.
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4
Shi‘ism and the Safavids
123
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and their leader, Hosein, drew near the town, they were intercepted by a
thousand mounted troops. The travelers agreed to move on to the north,
away from Kufa, escorted by the troops. The following day a further four
thousand men arrived with orders to make Hosein swear allegiance to the
caliph Yazid. Hosein refused. By now his people were running out of water,
and the soldiers blocked their way to the river.
After several days a new order arrived: Hosein and his followers should
be compelled to submit by force. The soldiers formed up in battle order and
bore down on Hosein’s smaller group. He tried to persuade his people to
save themselves and let him face their enemies alone, but they would not
leave him. He spoke to the troops confronting him, reproaching them. But
his enemies were obdurate and soon after began to shoot arrows into Ho-
sein’s camp. Completely outnumbered, Hosein’s men were killed one by one
as the arrows rained down among the tents and tethered animals. Some of
them fought back against their tormentors, charging in ones and twos into
the serried ranks that surrounded them, but they were soon killed. At last
Hosein was the only one left alive, holding the body of his infant son, who
had taken an arrow through the throat. The soldiers surrounded Hosein,
who fought hard until at last he was struck to the ground and one of them
finished him off.
Of Hosein’s male relatives only one of his sons survived (having lain ill in
the camp through the fighting). In Kufa, Hosein’s head was brought before
Yazid’s deputy, who struck the dead man’s face. A bystander reproached him
for striking the lips that the Prophet of God had once kissed.
Hosein was the grandson of the Prophet Mohammad, through the
Prophet’s daughter Fatima and his cousin Ali. This account of the massacre
at Karbala of the Prophet’s closest family has been passed down by genera-
tions of Shi‘a Muslims. As always, there must have been another side to the
story. From another perspective the Umayyad caliphs might look less
wicked, more like pragmatists struggling to hold a disparate empire to-
gether, and Hosein, Ali, and their partisans more like incompetent idealists.
But the important thing is to understand how the Shi‘a themselves later un-
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derstood the story. Karbala was the central, defining event in the early his-
tory of Shi‘a Islam. The shrine of Hosein at Karbala, on the site where it
happened, is one of the most important Shi‘a holy places. Each year the an-
niversary (Ashura) is still marked with deep mourning, by mass religious
demonstrations and outpourings of pious grief. Ever since Karbala, Shi‘a
Muslims have brooded over the martyrdom of Hosein and its symbolism,
and have nursed a sense of grievance, betrayal, and shame.
The great schisms of the Christian church, between East and West, and
later between Catholic and Protestant, came centuries after the time of Christ.
But the great schism in Islam that still divides Muslims today, between Sunni
and Shi‘a, originated in the earliest days of the faith—even before Karbala, in
the time of the Prophet Mohammad himself. Comparisons with the Chris-
tian schisms do not really work. A more apposite analogy, as noted by the his-
torian Richard N. Frye and others,2 can be drawn between, on the one hand,
the emphasis on law and tradition in Sunni Islam and Judaism and, on the
other hand, the emphasis on humility, sacrifice, and the religious hierarchy in
Christianity and Shi‘ism. The public grief of Ashura is similar in spirit to that
which one can still see on Good Friday in some Catholic countries. The pur-
pose in making comparisons between Shi‘ism and various aspects of Christi-
anity is not to suggest that they are somehow the same (they are not), nor to
encourage some kind of happy joining-hands ecumenism (naïve), but rather
to try to illuminate something that initially looks unfamiliar, and to suggest by
analogy that it may not be so strange or unfamiliar after all. Or at least, that it
is no more strange than Christian Catholicism.
The term Shi‘a signifies Shi‘a Ali—the party of Ali. Ali was the Prophet’s
cousin, and one of Mohammad’s earliest converts. The Shi‘a (sometimes
called Alids at this early phase) were simply those who favored rule by both
the blood descendants of Ali and the Prophet. Other characteristics and
doctrines only developed later.
From the beginning, Mohammad’s followers, the earliest Muslims, had
run into conflict with temporal authority. Mohammad, Ali, and the others
had been forced to flee from Mecca to Medina when their relationship with
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the rulers of Mecca deteriorated into open hostility. This situation recurs
again and again in Islamic history—particularly in the history of Shi‘ism.
Mohammad challenged the Meccans’ way of life, calling for more moral and
pious forms of conduct based on the revelation of God’s will in the Qor’an.
The Meccan authorities responded with derision and persecution. The con-
flict between arrogant, worldly, corrupt authority and earnest, pious auster-
ity was established as a cultural model for centuries, down to the Iranian
revolution of 1979, and to the present day.
Shi‘a Muslims believe that Mohammad nominated Ali as his successor, as
caliph, after his death, but that the rightful succession was usurped by oth-
ers. By the time Ali became the fourth caliph, in ad 656, the rulers of Islam
had conquered huge territories, from Egypt to Persia, as we saw in the previ-
ous chapter. This meant great new power for some of the leading families of
the Arab tribes (notably for some members of the Quraysh family, many of
whom had opposed Mohammad himself before Mecca submitted and con-
verted), but also required the Arab conquerors to adopt new patterns of rule
and power relationships.
Many Muslims did not approve of the changes, political deals, and prag-
matic compromises involved. Ali, for example, held himself aloof, maintain-
ing a pious life of austerity and prayer. He became a natural focus for dissent
and was in turn resented by those around the caliph, bringing forth the au-
thority/piety conflict within Islam itself for the first time. When Ali became
caliph, this mutual hostility led to civil war (fitna). Then when Ali tried to
make peace in 661, some of his more radical Kharijite supporters felt be-
trayed and murdered him, whereupon the leader of his former opponents—
Mu’awiya—took power as the first Umayyad caliph. In time, Mu’awiya died
and was succeeded by his son—the caliph Yazid that was Hosein’s enemy at
the time of Karbala in 680.
Hosein’s rebellion in defiance of Yazid’s authority was, as Shi‘a believe, a
bid to purify Islam and return it to its original principles. It drew force from
Hosein’s own blood link to the Prophet, but also from the perceived impiety
of Yazid and his court, where wine drinking was common and some of the
forms of pre-Islamic Byzantine and Persian practices had taken hold. Ho-
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sein hoped for support from Kufa, but Yazid’s troops got there first and bul-
lied the Kufans into passivity. Some Shi‘a historians believe that Hosein
went to his death at Karbala knowingly and willingly, in the belief that only
by sacrificing himself could he bring about the renewal he desired (another
point at which some have drawn comparisons with Christianity). The fail-
ure of Hosein’s Kufan supporters to help him added a strong sense of guilt
to the Shi‘a memory of Karbala.
After Karbala, the Umayyad dynasty of Yazid and his successors contin-
ued to rule at the head of Islam, and the conquest of new territory contin-
ued. To give an idea of the sense of shame and grievance felt by the Shi‘a, one
might try to imagine how Christians would have felt if the leadership of the
church after the death of Christ had fallen to Judas Iscariot, Pontius Pilate,
and their successors. The Shi‘a saw themselves as the underdogs, the dispos-
sessed, those always betrayed and humiliated by the powerful and the un-
righteous (notwithstanding that powerful Shi‘a dynasties arose later,
dominating extensive territories). A deep inclination to sympathy and com-
passion for the oppressed—and a tendency to see them as naturally more
righteous than the rich and powerful—has persisted in popular Shi‘ism
right through to the present day. The early Shi‘a regarded the Umayyad
caliphs as illegitimate usurpers and hoped for a revolt that would bring to
power the descendants of Mohammad, Ali, and Hosein. These descendants
were the Shi‘a Emams, the sidelined but legitimate leaders of Islam, an alter-
native line of descent to rival that of the Umayyad and Abbasid caliphs. Shi‘a
Muslims saw themselves as a more or less persecuted minority within states
run by and for Sunni Muslims.
Despite the schism, in the early centuries there was a fairly free inter-
change of ideas, a considerable pluralism of belief, and considerable diversity
of opinion among the Alids or Shi‘a themselves. Overall, Shi‘a theology and
law tended to be looser than in Sunni Islam, more open to the application of
reason in theology, more inclined to a free will position than a determinist
one, and more open to some of the more heterodox ideas circulating in the
Islamic world. This was partly the result of a broader hadith tradition,
which included the sayings and doings of the Shi‘a Emams. Shi‘a theology
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also differed because it addressed problems that were specific to the Shi‘a,
such as conduct under persecution.
The sixth Shi‘a Emam, Ja‘far al-Sadiq, developed a strategy for the eva-
sion of persecution that was to prove controversial. The doctrine of taqiyeh,
or dissimulation, permitted Shi‘a Muslims to deny their faith if necessary to
avoid persecution—a special dispensation that has striking similarities
with the doctrine of “mental reservation” granted for similar reasons by the
Catholic church in the period of the Counter-Reformation, and associated
with the Jesuits (though it originated before their time). Just as the Jesuits
acquired a reputation for deviousness and terminological trickery among
Protestants (whence in English we have the adjective “Jesuitical”), so the
doctrine of taqiyeh earned the Shi‘a a similar reputation among some
Sunni Muslims.
Some commentators argue that the doctrines of Ja‘far al-Sadiq reflected a
period of Shi‘a quietism—a retreat from politics, from confrontation, and
from efforts to overturn the caliphate. This quietism, with its disposition to
modesty and unpretentious virtue, was one thread of Shi‘ism in the follow-
ing centuries (and still is). But there were Shi‘a movements that emphati-
cally did not follow this pattern, including several major Shi‘a revolts in
Ja‘far’s lifetime—the significant Shi‘a participation in the revolt of Abu Mus-
lim that founded the Abbasid caliphate, for example. After Ja‘far al-Sadiq’s
death (in 765) there was a further schism. One group of Shi‘a supported
Ja‘far’s son Musa, while another group acclaimed his other son Ismail as the
seventh Emam, giving rise to the Ismaili or “Sevener” branch of Shi‘ism es-
poused by the later Fatimid rulers of Egypt. The Ismaili sect also spawned
the notorious movement known as the Assassins, a shadowy organization
whose doings were much distorted by Western chroniclers. The Assassins
established themselves as a power in the Alborz mountains in the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries, and they were especially important in the period
just before and after the Mongol invasions of the 1220s.
In the ninth century a further period of confusion followed the death of
the eleventh Emam (it was the dome of the shrine of the eleventh Emam, at
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The Safavids
By the end of the fifteenth century a militant brotherhood from northwest
Iran and eastern Anatolia, made up of Turkic horsemen and based initially
at Ardebil, had grown to military and political importance, and had begun
to look to expansion on a grander scale. Eastern Anatolia and Azerbaijan at
this time contained many such brotherhoods, more or less militant, more or
less exaggerated or extreme (ghuluww) in their beliefs (as perceived by their
neighbors), often incorporating elements of Sufism, millenarianism,
Shi‘ism, and saint-worship. The beliefs of these brotherhoods have been
traced back to pre-Islamic, Mazdaean roots, through the Khorramites of the
eighth and ninth centuries.3 They attracted the flotsam and jetsam of war-
rior society after the destruction and dislocation of the Mongol and
Timurid invasions—the dispossessed, the fugitives, the opponents of pow-
erful tribal chiefs, and others. They created an alternative center of power,
comparable in that way to the rebel sarbedari in Khorasan under the Mon-
gol Il-Khans. Further west, in the fourteenth century, a not dissimilar group
of Turkish warriors had established the beginnings of the Ottoman Empire
through the prestige of successful fighting against the Byzantines.
The brotherhood in Ardebil were the Safavids, named after one of their
early leaders, Shaykh Safi (1252–1334), a Sunni and a Sufi, who had
preached a purified and restored Islam and a new religious order on earth. It
is possible that he was of Kurdish descent. The early history of the Safavids
is an uncertain and complex subject, but it seems his successor Sadr al-Din
(1334–1391) organized the movement and created a hierarchy and the
arrangements for it to own property. This turned it from a loose association
into a more disciplined organization, one that started to create a wider net-
work of tribal alliances through favors and marriages. Under the later
Safavid shaykhs new groupings or tribes (oymaq) coalesced, held together by
these alliances, and by religious fervor4 (in which devotion to the spiritual
and military example of the Emam Ali was also an element). Under the
leadership of Shaykh Junayd (1447–1460), the Safavids and their followers
allied themselves with the Aq-Qoyunlu (White Sheep Turks, referred to in
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the preceding chapter), then the dominant power in the ancient territories
of Iran. The Safavids made successful raids into Christian Georgian terri-
tory and developed into a significant military force, later fighting other local
Muslim tribal groups.
After the account of Sufism and Sufi poetry in the previous chapter, the
appearance of fervently warlike Sufis, intent on conquest, might be hard to
reconcile. But Sufism was an extensive, diverse, and multifaceted phenome-
non, and the school of love was only one manifestation of it. Some Sufi
shaykhs were learned hermits, wedded to poverty and contemplation. But
others were less contemplative and more proselytizing, more ghuluww (ex-
treme), more inclined to the realization of divine purposes in the world
through worldly acts, and more ambivalent about violence. The obedience of
the Sufi postulant to his Sufi Master (pir) was an institution common to
most Sufi brotherhoods, but it had an obvious military value in the more
militant ones—like, for example, the Safavids. The military strength of the
Safavids lay in the fighting prowess of the Turkic warriors they led, known
collectively as the Qezelbash, after the red hats they wore (Qezelbash means
“red heads”). Some of the Qezelbash went into battle on horseback without
armor, believing that their faith made them invulnerable. The Sufism of
most of the Qezelbash would have been unsophisticated, centering on some
group rituals and a collective mutual loyalty—just as their Shi‘ism may ini-
tially have amounted to little more than a reverence for Ali as the archetype
of a holy warrior. But it created a powerful group cohesion—asabiyah.
It is uncertain just when the Safavids turned Shi‘a; in the religious context
of that time and place, the question is somewhat artificial. Shi‘a notions were
just one part of an eclectic mix. By the end of the fifteenth century a new
Safavid leader, Esma‘il, was able to expand Safavid influence at the expense of
the Aq-Qoyunlu, who had been weakened by disputes over the dynastic suc-
cession. Esma‘il was himself the grandson of Uzun Hasan, the great Aq-
Qoyunlu chief of the 1460s and 1470s, and may have emulated some of his
grandfather’s charismatic and messianic leadership style. In 1501 Esma‘il and
his Qezelbash followers conquered Tabriz (the old Seljuk capital) in north-
western Iran, and Esma‘il declared himself shah. He was only fourteen years
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old. A contemporary Italian visitor described him as fair and handsome, not
very tall, stout and strong with broad shoulders and reddish hair. He had
long moustaches (a Qezelbash characteristic, prominent in many contempo-
rary illustrations), was left-handed, and was skilled with the bow.5
At the time of his conquest of Tabriz, Esma‘il proclaimed Twelver
Shi‘ism as the new religion of his territories. Esma‘il’s Shi‘ism took an ex-
treme form, which required the faithful to curse the memory of the first
three caliphs that had preceded Ali. This was very offensive to Sunni Mus-
lims, who venerated those caliphs, along with Ali, as the Rashidun or righ-
teous caliphs. Esma‘il’s demand intensified the division between the Safavids
and their enemies, especially the staunchly Sunni Ottomans to the west. Re-
cent scholarship suggests that even if there was a pro-Shi‘a tendency among
the Qezelbash earlier, Esma‘il’s declaration of Shi‘ism in 1501 was a deliber-
ate political act.
Within a further ten years Esma‘il conquered the rest of Iran and all the
territories of the old Sassanid Empire, including Mesopotamia and the old
Abbasid capital of Baghdad. He defeated the remnants of the Aq-Qoyunlu,
as well as the Uzbeks in the northeast and various rebels. Two followers of
one rebel leader were captured in 1504, taken to Isfahan, and roasted on
spits as kebabs. Esma‘il ordered his companions to eat the kebab to show
their loyalty (this is not the only example of cannibalism as a kind of ex-
treme fetish among the Qezelbash).6
Esma‘il attempted to consolidate his control by asserting Shi‘ism
throughout his new domains (though the conventional view that this was
achieved in a short time and that the import of Shi‘a scholars from outside
Iran was significant in the process has been put into doubt7). He also did his
best to suppress rival Sufi orders. It is important to stress that although
there had been strong Shi‘a elements in Iran for centuries before 1501, and
important Shi‘a shrines like Qom and Mashhad, Iran had been predomi-
nantly Sunni, like most of the rest of the Islamic world. The center of
Shi‘ism had been the shrine cities of southern Iraq.8
Esma‘il wrote some poetry (mostly in the Turkic dialect of Azerbaijan,
which became the language of the Safavid court), and it is likely that his fol-
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lowers recited and sang his compositions as well as other religious songs.
The following poem of Esma‘il’s gives a flavor of the religious intensity and
militant confidence of the Qezelbash:
Book.” One could make a parallel with the way that religious persecution in-
tensified either side of the Roman/Persian border in the fourth century ad,
in the reign of Shapur II, after Constantine made Christianity the state reli-
gion of the Roman Empire.
The Safavid monarchs also turned against the Sufis, despite the Safavids’
Sufi heritage. The Sufis were persecuted to the point that the only surviving
Sufi order was the Safavid one, and the others disappeared or went under-
ground. In the long term, the main beneficiary of this were the Shi‘a ulema.
This was important because the Sufis had previously had a dominant or almost
dominant position in the religious life of Iran, especially in the countryside.
The empire established by Esma‘il also created a series of problems for it-
self. Prime among these was the unruly militancy of the Qezelbash, the sus-
picion between Turks and Tajiks (the latter being a disparaging Turkic term
for a Persian), and the division between the Sufi-inclined, eclectic Qezelbash
and the shari‘a tradition of the urban Shi‘a ulema. Gradually all of these were
resolved in favor of the Persians and the ulema, as Ibn Khaldun would have
predicted. Esma‘il’s successor, Tahmasp (r. 1524–1576), lived through sev-
eral years of civil war as a minor, losing territory over his reign to both the
Ottomans in the west (including Baghdad in 1534) and to the Uzbeks in the
east. He moved the capital from Tabriz to Qazvin, making it more secure,
but after his death there was civil war again, and a troubled period that saw
two shahs in succession—before Abbas, cleverly manipulating alliances with
chosen Qezelbash tribes, took the throne in 1587.
A weaker monarch would not have lasted long with the Qezelbash if he
had attempted these reforms. But Abbas cunningly played the tribes against
one another, and his success in war gave him huge prestige, making almost
everything possible. With his new army he defeated the Uzbeks in the east—
restoring the border on the Oxus river—and the Ottomans in the west. He
took Baghdad twice. To consolidate his victories, especially in the northeast,
he sent large numbers of Kurds, along with Qezelbash tribesmen like the
Qajars and Afshars, to serve as protectors of the new borders. This resettle-
ment policy served also to reinforce his authority over the tribes, while
weakening their independent power by fragmenting them. He moved
provincial governors from post to new post regularly to prevent any of them
from creating regional power bases for themselves. He also resettled many
Armenians from the northwest to a suburb south of Isfahan, New Julfa,
where Christian Armenians and their bishop still live today.
The new capital, Isfahan, had been a significant place even in the time of
the Sassanids, containing important monuments and mosques from later
periods. But today it stands as perhaps the most splendid and impressive
gallery of Islamic architecture in the world, and it is substantially a creation
of the Safavid period. The central structures, the soaring blue iwans of the
shah mosque, the beautiful Allahvardi Khan bridge, the Ali Qapu and Chehel
Sotoun palaces, the Shaykh Lotfallah mosque, and the great Meidan-e
Shah—all were built or at least begun in the time of Shah Abbas, though
others were added later. The buildings assert Safavid power and prestige and
their identification with Shi‘a Islam, resulting in a magnificence that has
rarely been surpassed.
One of Abbas’s great successes was simply surviving and ruling long
enough for his various enterprises to bear fruit. But in the process he created
a problem—the succession. Succession was a common difficulty for many
monarchs. In Europe, the problem was that every so often a ruler could not
produce a son. This could create all sorts of difficulties—attempts at divorce
(Henry VIII, for example), attempts to secure recognition for the succession
of a daughter or more distant relative, disputes over succession resulting in
war. In the Islamic world, the problem was different. Polygamy meant that
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kings did not normally have a problem producing a son, but they might, on
the contrary, have too many sons. This could mean fierce fighting among po-
tential heirs and their supporters when the father died. In the Ottoman Em-
pire such battles were institutionalized—rival sons who had served their
father as provincial governors would, on hearing of his death, race for the
capital to claim the throne. The winner would get the support of the janis-
saries, and would then have the other sons put to death. Later, the Ot-
tomans adopted a more dignified arrangement, keeping the possible heirs in
the Sultan’s harem palace until their father died. But this meant they would
have little understanding of or aptitude for government, and the new prac-
tice helped to increase the power of the chief minister, the vizier, so that the
vizier ruled effectively as viceroy. It was a conundrum.
Many fathers have disagreements and clashes with their sons, and history is
full of feuds between kings and their crown princes. Abbas was no exception;
he had come to power himself by deposing his father. Following the Ottoman
precedent again, he imprisoned his sons in the harem for fear that they would
attempt to dethrone him. But he still feared that they might plot against him,
so he had them blinded, and he had one of them killed. Eventually, he was suc-
ceeded by one of his grandsons. The unhappy practice of keeping royal heirs
in the harem was kept up thereafter by the Safavid monarchs.
Although Abbas showed reverence for the shrines of his Sufi ancestors in
Ardebil, his deliberate weakening of the Qezelbash was matched, after signs
of opposition from the Nuqtavi Sufis, by executions and other punishments
that broke them too. Abbas favored instead the ulema and the endowments
(awqaf) that supported them—especially in the shrine cities of Mashhad and
Qom. On one occasion he spent twenty-eight days walking as a pilgrim
across the desert from Isfahan to Mashhad—to show his devotion and to set
an example. Since the continuing hostilities with the Ottomans made access
to the shrines of southern Iraq difficult and uncertain, the shah’s example
helped to swing ordinary Persian Shi‘as toward the Persian shrine cities.
More endowments followed the pilgrims, and the grateful ulema aligned
themselves ever more closely with the Safavid regime. These developments
were also significant for the future. Abbas had been astute in his construction
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of a governmental system that protected state revenue, and his was more
successful than most previous dynasties had been. But over the century that
followed, more and more land was given over to religious endowments,
sometimes merely as a kind of tax dodge, since religious property was ex-
empt from tax.12
Under Shah Abbas the Safavid dynasty achieved a more sophisticated,
more powerful, and more enduring governmental system than the tradi-
tional lands of Iran had seen for many centuries.13 The Safavid state, its ad-
ministration, and its institutionalizing of Shi‘ism set the parameters for the
modern shape of Iran. In its material culture—in metalwork, textiles, carpet
making, miniature painting, ceramics, and above all in its architecture—the
period was one of surpassing creativity in the making of beautiful things.
The dominance of Shi‘ism and the Shi‘a ulema was also accompanied by a
period of creativity in Shi‘a thought—notably among the thinkers who have
been called the School of Isfahan (Mir Damad, Mir Fendereski, and Shaykh
Baha’i), and the religious philosophy of the great Molla Sadra.
Molla Sadra was born in Shiraz in 1571 or 1572. He studied in Qazvin
and Isfahan as a young man, being interested in philosophy and the usual re-
ligious studies as well as Sufism. He was taught by two great thinkers of the
age, Mir Damad and Shaykh Baha’i, and spent some time living near Qom
and traveling before finally settling as a teacher in Shiraz again. His ideas
(most notably expressed in the book known as al-Afsar al-arba’a—Four Jour-
neys) drew upon the philosophy of Avicenna and Neoplatonism, but also on
traditional Shi‘a thought and on the Sufism of Sohravardi (Illumination-
ism), and Ibn Arabi. Molla Sadra’s thought was controversial at the time for
its leaning toward mysticism, which the ulema had traditionally opposed.
But in explaining a way that philosophical rationalism and personal mystical
insight should be combined in a program of individual reflection and study,14
Molla Sadra was able to domesticate mysticism and, calling it erfan, make it
acceptable to the madreseh tradition.15 His thinking has been central in Is-
lamic philosophy in the centuries since his time.
Persian cultural influence in the eastern part of the Islamic world was still
strong, and it was in these centuries that it flowered outside Persia with the
greatest brilliance—in Ottoman Turkey (where Persian was used for diplo-
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to look at it squarely. The Sufis were increasingly out of favor, and intellec-
tual life was channeled into the madresehs. There were always hangers-on
and pseudo-mullahs who could attract a following among the luti (unruly
youths) of the towns by being more extreme than their more reflective, edu-
cated rivals; and the perceived history of persecution suffered by the Shi‘a
did not always prompt a sensitivity to the vulnerability of other minorities
once the Shi‘a became the dominant sect. Notions of the religious impurity
(najes) of unbelievers, especially Jews, contributed to a general worsening in
the condition of minorities, and after 1642 there was a particularly grim
period of persecution and forced conversions. Orders were issued that Jews
should wear distinguishing red patches on their clothing to identify them-
selves, that their word at law was near worthless, that they must not wear
matching shoes, fine clothes, or waist sashes, that they must not walk in the
middle of the street or walk past a Muslim, that they must not enter a shop
and touch things, that their weddings must be held in secret, that if they
were cursed by a Muslim they must stay silent, and so on.17 Many of these
would-be rules (running directly contrary to the spirit of proper tolerance
accorded to People of the Book in Islam, and reminiscent of similar ugly rul-
ings imposed in Christian Europe in the Middle Ages and at other times)
probably reflect the aspirations of a few extremist mullahs rather than the
reality as lived. Conditions would have varied greatly from town to town and
changed over time, but they were still indicative of the attitudes of some and
appeared to legitimize the actions of others. As authority figures in villages
and towns, humane, educated mullahs were often the most important pro-
tectors of the Jews, Christians, and Zoroastrians.18 But other, lesser mullahs
frequently agitated against these vulnerable groups.
Some have suggested that even among the ulema the close relationship
between the Safavid state and the Shi‘a clergy was not a healthy phenome-
non. The over-close relationship led some mullahs to overlook the strong
distrust of politics, kingship, and secular authority that is deeply entrenched
in Shi‘ism (and is perhaps one of its most attractive characteristics) in their
scramble for the good things that the Safavid shahs had on offer—appoint-
ments, endowments, and a chance to wield some political authority.19 As is
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often the case with unchecked processes that involve greed, this one brought
some of the senior Shi‘a clergy to shipwreck at the end of the Safavid period.
After the death of Abbas the Great in 1629, the Safavid dynasty endured
for almost a century. But except for an interlude in the reign of Shah Abbas II
(1642–1666) it was a period of stagnation. Baghdad was lost to the Ot-
tomans again in 1638, and the Treaty of Zohab in 1639 fixed the Ottoman/
Persian boundary in its present-day position between Iran and Iraq. Abbas
II took Kandahar from the Moghuls in 1648, but thereafter there was peace
in the east also.
Militarily, the Safavid state probably reached its apogee under Shah Abbas
the Great and Abbas II. But despite its classification with Ottoman Turkey
and Moghul India as one of the Gunpowder Empires (by Marshall G. S.
Hodgson), there is good reason to judge that the practices and structures of
the Safavid Empire were transformed less by the introduction of gunpowder
weapons than those other empires were. Cannon and muskets were present
in Persian armies, but as add-ons to previous patterns of warfare rather than
elements transforming the conduct of war, as they were elsewhere. The
mounted tradition of Persian lance-and-bow warfare, harking back culturally
to Ferdowsi, was resistant to the introduction of awkward and noisy firearms.
Their cavalry usually outclassed that of their enemies, but Persians did not
take to heavy cannon and the greater technical demands of siege warfare as
the Ottomans and Moghuls did. The great distances, lack of navigable rivers,
rugged terrain, and poor roads of the Iranian plateau did not favor the trans-
port of heavy cannon. Most Iranian cities were either unwalled or were pro-
tected by crumbling walls that were centuries old—this at a time when huge,
sophisticated, and highly expensive fortifications were being constructed in
Europe and elsewhere to deal with the challenge of heavy cannon. Persia’s
military revolution was left incomplete.20
Alcohol seems to have played a significant part in the poor showing of the
later Safavid monarchs. From the time of Shah Esma‘il and before, drinking
sessions had been a part of the group rituals of the Qezelbash, building
probably on the ancient practices of the Mongols and the Turkic tribes in
Central Asia, but also on ghuluww Sufi practice and the Persian tradition of
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He was tall, strong, and active, a little too effeminate for a monarch—with a
Roman nose, very well proportioned to other parts, very large blue eyes and a
middling mouth, a beard dyed black, shaved round and well turned back, even
to his ears. His manner was affable but nevertheless majestic. He had a mas-
culine and agreeable voice, a gentle way of speaking and was so very engaging
that, when you had bowed to him he seemed in some measure to return it by a
courteous inclination of his head, and this he always did smiling.23
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Soleiman’s reign was for the most part quiet. Some fine mosques and
palaces were built, but one could take those as material symbols of the grow-
ing diversion of economic resources into religious endowments, and of the
blinkered, inward-looking tendency of the monarch and his court. Both of
these were to prove damaging in the long run. Soleiman showed little inter-
est in governing, leaving state business to his officials.
Sometimes he would amuse himself by forcing them (especially the most
pious ones) to drink to the dregs an especially huge goblet of wine (called
the hazar pishah). Sometimes they collapsed and had to be carried out. If
they stayed on their feet, the shah might, for a joke, order them to explain
their views of important matters of government.24
Shah Soleiman himself drank heavily, despite occasional outbreaks of
temperance induced by health worries and religious conscience.25 His plea-
sure-loving insouciance was the natural outcome of his upbringing in the
harem. He had little sense of the world beyond the court and little interest
in it. He merely wanted to continue the lazy life he had enjoyed before, aug-
mented by the luxuries he had formerly been denied. But some contempo-
rary accounts say that when drunk he could turn nasty, that on one occasion
he had his brother blinded, and that at other times he ordered executions.
It is a testament to the strength and sophistication of the Safavid state
and its bureaucracy that it continued to function despite the lack of a strong
monarch. In other Islamic states this situation often permitted the emer-
gence of a vizier or chief minister as the effective ruler. In Isfahan it seems
that the influence of other important office holders (as well as that of
Maryam Begum, the shah’s great aunt, who came to dominate the harem)
was enough to prevent any single personality achieving dominance. But as
time went on the officials acted more and more in their own private and fac-
tional interests, against the interests of their rivals, and less and less in the
interest of the state. Bureaucracies are not of themselves virtuous institu-
tions—they need firm masters and periodic reform to reinforce an ethic of
service if they are not to go wrong. And if the officials see their masters act-
ing irresponsibly, they will imitate their vices.
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5
The Fall of the
Safavids, Nader Shah,
the Eighteenth-Century
Interregnum, and the Early
Years of the Qajar Dynasty
According to a story that was widely repeated, when Shah Soleiman lay dy-
ing in July 1694, he left it undecided which of his sons should succeed him.
Calling his courtiers and officials, he told them—“If you desire ease, elevate
145
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/29/09 9:41 AM Page 146
Hosein Mirza. If the glory of your country be the object of your wishes,
raise Abbas Mirza to the throne.”1 Once Soleiman was dead, the eunuch of-
ficials who supervised the harem decided for Hosein because they judged he
would be easier for them to control. Hosein was also the favorite of his great
aunt, Maryam Begum, the dominant personality in the harem, so Hosein
duly became shah.
Such stories present historians with a problem. Their anecdotal quality,
though vivid, does not fit the style of modern historical writing, and even
their wide contemporary currency cannot overcome a reluctance to accept
them at face value. The deathbed speech, the neat characterization of the
two princes, and the cynical choice of the bureaucrats—it is all too pat. But
to dismiss it out of hand would be as wrong as to accept it at face value. It is
more sensible to accept the story as a reflection of the overall nature of moti-
vations and events, even if the actual words reported were never said. The
story reflects the impression of casual negligence, even irresponsible mis-
chief, that we know of Shah Soleiman from other sources. As the conse-
quences will show, it also gives an accurate picture of the character of Shah
Sultan Hosein, and the motivation of his courtiers. It is quite credible that
Shah Soleiman left the succession open and that over-powerful officials
chose the prince they thought would be most malleable.
Initially, Shah Sultan Hosein appeared to be as pious and orthodox as
Mohammed Baqer Majlesi, the pre-eminent cleric at court, could have
wished. Under the latter’s influence the bottles from the royal wine cellar
were brought out into the meidan in front of the royal palace and publicly
smashed. Instead of allowing a Sufi the honor of buckling on his sword at
his coronation, as had been traditional (reflecting the Sufi origins of the
Safavid dynasty), the new shah had Majlesi do it instead. Within the year
orders went out for taverns, coffee houses, and brothels to be closed, and for
prostitution, opium, “colorful herbs,” sodomy, public music, dancing, and
gambling to be banned—along with more innocent amusements like kite
flying. Women were to stay at home, to behave modestly, and were forbidden
to mix with men who were not relatives. Islamic dress was to be worn. The
new laws were applied despite the protests of treasury officials, who warned
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 147
Isfahan, and delivered them to the shah’s harem for his enjoyment. After a
time, if they became pregnant, they would be taken away again, well fur-
nished with money and presents. Some were married off to prominent no-
bles, so that when male children were born, they became the heirs of those
nobles.3
One could make an argument that the world would have been a better
place if there had been more monarchs like Shah Soleiman and Shah Sultan
Hosein—pacific, passive, interested in little more than building pleasure
pavilions, making garden improvements, drinking, and silken dalliance. But
war and politics, like nature, abhor a vacuum. Persia in 1700 was, as states
go, well placed: it had strong, natural frontiers, and its traditional enemies
were either as passive as itself or distracted by more pressing troubles. The
state of the economy has been debated, but it now seems that what were
once taken as signs of economic decline were in fact signs mainly of the fail-
ure of the state to adapt to economic change.4 The expansion of European
trade to dominance, subordinating and damaging the economies of Asia,
had yet to happen. Persian architects still produced beautiful buildings—
the Madar-e Shah madreseh in Isfahan shows the loveliness of Safavid style
in this last phase. The state administration continued to function despite
the shah’s negligence and was still capable of raising taxation (albeit less than
it should have raised) and powerful armies. But the Safavid state had a soft
center, and the wider world was no less harsh and competitive than in the
days of the Mongols and their successors. The story of the end of the
Safavids is a powerful reminder that the prime concern of a state is always
(or should always be) security—what Machiavelli called mantenere lo stato (to
maintain the state). The rest—the palaces, the sophisticated court, the reli-
gious endowments, the parks and gardens, the fine clothes, paintings, jew-
elry, and so on, however delightful—were mere froth.
The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 149
and also had a reputation for generosity to the poor and to his friends; this
made him popular among the Afghans, who valued rugged austerity and
piety and disliked ostentation. The oppressive Safavid governor of Kanda-
har—doubly unpopular because he was a Georgian asserting Shi‘a su-
premacy—worried that Mir Veis had enough influence to organize a
rebellion and made the mistake of sending him to Isfahan. There Mir Veis
soon summed up the debility of the regime.
Like most Pashtun-speaking Afghans, Mir Veis was a Sunni Muslim.
While in Isfahan he secured permission from the shah to go on the hajj to
Mecca, where he obtained a fatwa legitimizing a revolt against Safavid rule.
After his return to Kandahar (he charmed Shah Sultan Hosein and easily
convinced him of his loyalty) Mir Veis coordinated a successful revolt and
killed the Georgian governor in 1709. A succession of armies were sent from
Isfahan to crush the rebels, and there is evidence that at least one vizier
made serious attempts to galvanize the state—among other things reestab-
lishing the artillery corps that had ceased to exist in the time of Shah
Soleiman. But the expeditions failed, and their failure encouraged the Ab-
dali Afghans of Herat to revolt, too. Maneuvers by jealous courtiers in Isfa-
han impeded active officials or removed them from office, and the shah
failed to intervene. As the prestige of the state wilted, Safavid subjects in
other territories revolted or seceded—in Baluchistan, Khorasan, Shirvan,
and the island of Bahrain. Maryam Begum tried to prod the shah into more
determined action to restore order, but little was done and (mercifully for
her) she seems to have been dead by 1721.
Mir Veis died in 1715, but in 1719 his young son, Mahmud, raided onto
the Iranian plateau as far as Kerman, capturing the city and doing terrible
damage there. Encouraged by this success, Mahmud returned in 1721 with
an army of Afghans, Baluchis, and other adventurers. Mahmud was an un-
stable character, and paradoxically he might not have succeeded but for his
instability. He encountered difficulties at Kerman and Yazd, but rather than
turning back as a more cautious leader might have done, he boldly pressed
on toward the Safavid capital. The Safavid vizier mobilized an army against
the Afghans that probably outnumbered them by more than two to one, but
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 151
murdered and was replaced as shah by his cousin Ashraf. Ashraf initially
made promises to protect the abdicated Shah Sultan Hosein but eventually
had him beheaded to forestall an Ottoman attempt to restore him to the
throne.
The 1720s were a miserable decade for many Persians. In the territories
occupied by the Ottomans, some people were initially carried off as slaves (it
was permissible to enslave Shi‘as because the Sunni Ottomans regarded
them as heretics). In the area controlled by the Afghans, Persian townspeo-
ple and peasants were frequently attacked and plundered, and Ashraf issued
an edict ordering that the Persians should be treated the worst of a hierarchy
of groups—worse than Christians, Zoroastrians, or even Jews.5 Fighting
continued between the various occupiers and those who still resisted them,
and the economy was badly disrupted, causing further impoverishment,
hardship, and suffering.
which means “the slave of Tahmasp.” It was an honor to be given the name of
royalty in this way, but Tahmasp Qoli Khan was to prove an over-mighty
servant. By contrast with Nader, Tahmasp combined the faults of his father
and grandfather—he was an ineffectual, lazy, vindictive alcoholic. The usual
upbringing had taken its usual effect. One of Tahmasp’s courtiers com-
mented that he would never make a success of his reign because he was al-
ways drunk and no one was in a position to correct him.7
After consolidating his position by making a punitive campaign to cow
the Abdali Afghans of Herat, and having established his dominance at Tah-
masp’s court, Nader by the autumn of 1729 was finally ready to attack the
Afghan forces that were occupying Isfahan. An eyewitness account from this
time, from the Greek merchant and traveler Basile Vatatzes, gives a vivid im-
pression of the daily exercises Nader had imposed on the army to prepare
them for battle. We know that he made these routine for his troops
throughout his career, but no other source describes the exercises in such
detail.
Vatatzes wrote that Nader, entering the exercise area on his horse, would
nod in greeting to his officers. He would then halt his horse and sit silently
for some time, examining the assembled troops. Finally, he would turn to the
officers and ask what battle formations or weapons the troops would prac-
tice with that day. Then the exercises would begin:
And they would attack from various positions, and they would do wheels and
counter-wheels, and close up formation, and charges, and disperse formation, and
then close up again on the same spot; and flights; and in these flights they would
make counter-attacks, quickly rallying together the dispersed troops. . . . And they
exercised all sorts of military manoeuvres on horseback, and they would use real
weapons, but with great care so as not to wound their companions.
The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 153
Nader performed the exercise he would gallop along, opening and closing
his arms like wings as he handled the bow and the quiver, and hit the target
two or three times in three or four attempts, looking “like an eagle.” The cav-
alry exercises lasted three hours. The infantry also exercised together:
Nader duly finished off the remnants of the Afghan occupying force. He
went on to throw the Ottoman Turks out of western Persia before turning
rapidly east to conquer Herat. In all these campaigns his modernized forces,
strong in gunpowder weapons, outclassed their opponents and showed
themselves able to overcome the ferocity of the Afghan cavalry charges and
the attacks of the provincial Ottoman troops. But while he was in Herat, he
learned that in his absence Tahmasp had renewed the war with the Ot-
tomans, allowed himself to be defeated, and concluded a humiliating peace
with the Ottomans. Nader issued a manifesto repudiating the treaty, and
marched west. It is striking that he declared himself publicly and sought
popular support for his action—a modern moment that argues against
those who deny the existence of any but local and dynastic loyalties in this
period.
Arriving in Isfahan in the late summer of 1732—and having prepared
what was to come with typical care—Nader fooled Tahmasp into a false
sense of security and got him drunk. He then displayed the Safavid shah in
this disreputable state to the Shi‘a courtiers and army officers. The assem-
bled notables, prompted by Nader, declared Tahmasp unfit to rule, and ele-
vated his infant son Abbas to the throne instead. Nader continued as
generalissimo to this infant, announcing at the coronation his intention to
“throw reins around the necks of the rulers of Kandahar, Bokhara, Delhi,
and Istanbul” on his behalf. Those present may have thought this to be vain
boasting, but events were to prove them wrong.
Nader’s first priority was to attack the Ottomans again and restore the
traditional frontiers of Persia in the west and north. In his first campaign in
Ottoman Iraq he met a setback: a powerful army including some of the best
troops held centrally by the Ottoman state marched east to relieve Baghdad,
led by an experienced commander. This was warfare of a different order to
that Nader had experienced up to that time. Overconfident, he divided his
army outside Baghdad—attempting to prevent supplies getting through to
the besieged city—and suffered a serious defeat. But within a few months,
after replacing lost men and equipment with a ruthless efficiency that caused
much suffering among the hapless peasants and townspeople who had to
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 155
pay for it, Nader renewed the Turkish war, this time defeating the Ottoman
forces near Kirkuk. Moving north, he then inflicted a devastating defeat on a
new Ottoman army near Yerevan. This was in June 1735. A truce was nego-
tiated on the basis of the old frontiers that had existed before 1722, and the
Ottomans withdrew. The Russians—Nader’s allies against the Ottomans—
had already withdrawn from the Persian lands along the Caspian coast, their
regiments having lost many men to disease in the humid climate of Gilan.
Nader Shah
With the exception of Kandahar, Nader had now restored control over all
the traditional territories of Safavid Persia. He decided the time was right to
make himself shah, and he did so by means of an acclamation by all the
great nobles, tribal chiefs, and senior clerics of Persia at an assembly on the
Moghan plain. There was little dissent, but the chief mullah was overheard
speaking privately in favor of the continuation of Safavid rule, and was
strangled. The infant Abbas was deposed, and the rule of the Safavid dy-
nasty at last came to an end. It is noteworthy that despite Nader’s later repu-
tation for tyrannical cruelty, and with the exception of the unfortunate chief
mullah (whose execution carried its own political message), he achieved his
rise to power almost without the use of political violence. He brought about
the deposition of Tahmasp and the coronation at the Moghan not by assas-
sination, but by careful preparation, propaganda, cunning maneuvering, and
the presence of overbearing military force—and above all by the prestige of
his military successes.
Some other significant events occurred at the Moghan. Nader made it a
condition of his acceptance of the throne that the Persian people accepted the
cessation of Shi‘a practices offensive to Sunni Muslims (especially the ritual
cursing of the first three caliphs). This new religious policy served a variety of
purposes. The reorientation toward Sunnism helped to reinforce the loyalty
of the large Sunni contingent in Nader’s army, which he had built up in order
to avoid too great a dependence on the traditionalist Shi‘a element, who
tended to be pro-Safavid. But also the new policy was not aggressively dog-
O
156
Nader Shah
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0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/29/09 9:41 AM Page 156
Baghdad
Murchakhor Isfahan Farah Lahore
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Extent of Persian influence
under Nader Shah Muscat Arabian Sea
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/29/09 9:41 AM Page 157
The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 157
matic. Religious minorities were treated with greater tolerance. Nader was
generous to the Armenians, and his reign was regarded later by the Jews as
one of relief from persecution (though minorities suffered as much as any-
one else from his violent oppression and heavy taxation, especially in later
years).9 The religious policy made it easier for Nader to make a grab for the
endowments of Shi‘a mosques and shrines, an important extra source of
cash to pay his troops. Within Persia, Nader sought only to amend religious
practices—not to impose Sunnism wholesale. But outside Persia he pre-
sented himself and the country as converts to Sunnism10—which enabled
Nader to set himself up as a potential rival to the Ottoman sultan for su-
premacy over Islam as a whole, something that would have been impossible
if he and his state had remained orthodox Shi‘a.
The religious policy also served to distinguish Nader’s regime and its
principles from those of the Safavids. He did this in other ways, too, notably
with his policy toward minorities, and by giving his sons governorships
rather than penning them up in the harem. He also showed moderation in
the size of his harem and issued decrees forbidding the abduction of
women. This change was probably directed, at least in part, at pointing up
the contrast between his rule and that of the last Safavids.
Crowned shah, with his western frontiers secure and in undisputed
control of the central lands of Persia, Nader set off eastward to conquer
Kandahar. The exactions to pay for this new campaign caused great suffer-
ing and in many parts of the country brought the economy almost to a
standstill. Nader took Kandahar after a long siege, but he did not stop
there. Using the excuse that the Moghul authorities had given refuge to
Afghan fugitives, Nader crossed the old frontier between the Persian and
Moghul empires, took Kabul, and marched on toward Delhi. North of
Delhi, at Karnal, the Persian army encountered the army of the Moghul
emperor, Mohammad Shah. The Persians were much inferior in number
to the Moghul forces, yet thanks to the better training and firepower of his
soldiers, and rivalry and disunity among the Moghul commanders, Nader
defeated them. He was helped by the fact that the Moghul commanders
were mounted on elephants, which besides proving vulnerable to firearms
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were liable to run wild—to the dismay of their distinguished riders and any-
one who happened to be in their path.
From the battlefield of Karnal, Nader went on to Delhi, where he arrived
in March 1739. Shortly after his arrival there, rioting broke out and some
Persian soldiers were killed. So far from home, and with the wealth of the
Moghul Empire at stake, Nader could not afford to lose control. He ordered
a ruthless massacre in which an estimated thirty thousand people died,
mostly innocent civilians. Prior to this point, Nader had generally (at least
away from the battlefield) achieved his ends without excessive bloodshed.
But after Delhi, he may have decided that his previous scruples had become
redundant.
With a characteristic blend of threat and diplomacy, Nader stripped the
Moghul emperor of a vast treasure of jewels, gold, and silver, and accepted
the gift of all the Moghul territories west of the Indus River. The treasure
was worth as much as perhaps 700 million rupees. To put this sum in some
kind of context, it has been calculated that the total cost to the French gov-
ernment of the Seven Years’ War (1756–1763), including subsidies paid to
the Austrian government as well as all the costs of the fighting on land and
sea, was about 1.8 billion livres tournois (the standard unit of account in pre-
revolutionary France). This was equivalent to about £90 million sterling at
the time—close to the rough estimate of £87.5 million sterling for the value
of Nader’s haul from Delhi. Some of the jewels he took away—the largest,
most impressive ones, like the Kuh-e Nur, the Darya-ye Nur, and the Taj-e
Mah—had a complex and often bloody history of their own in the following
decades.
Nader did not attempt to annex the Moghul Empire outright. His pur-
pose in conquering Delhi had been to secure the cash necessary to continue
his wars of conquest in the west, for which the wealth of Persia alone had, by
the time of his coronation, begun to prove inadequate.
Nader’s campaigns are a reminder of the centrality of Persia to events in
the region, in ways that have parallels today. A list of some of Nader’s
sieges—Baghdad, Basra, Kirkuk, Mosul, Kandahar, Herat, Kabul—has a
familiar ring to it after the events of the first years of the twenty-first cen-
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 159
tury. It is worth recalling that Persians were not strangers in any of the lands
in which Nader campaigned. Although he and his Safavid predecessors were
of Turkic origin and spoke a Turkic language at court, the cultural influence
of Persian was such that the language of the court and administration in
Delhi and across northern India was Persian, and diplomatic correspon-
dence from the Ottoman court in Istanbul was normally in Persian, too.
Persian hegemony from Delhi to Istanbul would, in some ways, have seemed
natural to many of the inhabitants of the region, echoing as it did the Per-
sian character of earlier empires and the pervasive influence of Persian liter-
ary, religious, and artistic culture.
Nader’s annexation of Moghul territory west of the Indus, removing the
geographical barrier of the Afghan mountains, was one indicator that his
regime, had it endured, might have expanded further into India. Other indi-
cations include his construction of a fleet in the Persian Gulf, which would
have greatly facilitated communications between the different parts of such
an empire, and his adoption of a new currency designed to be interchange-
able with the rupee. If this had happened—especially if the trade route
through to Basra, Baghdad, and beyond had been opened up—and if it had
been managed wisely, Nader could have seen a release of trade and economic
energy comparable to that under the Abbasids a thousand years earlier. But
that was not to happen.
On his return from India, Nader discovered that his son, Reza Qoli, who
had been made viceroy in his absence, had executed the former Safavid
shahs Tahmasp and Abbas. Nader’s displeasure at this was increased by his
dislike of the magnificent entourage Reza Qoli had built up while Nader
had been in India. In response, Nader took away his son’s viceroyship and
humiliated him. From this point, their relationship deteriorated, and Nader
came to believe that Reza Qoli was plotting to supplant him.
From India, Nader made a successful campaign in Turkestan. Then he
went on to subdue the rebellious Lezges of Daghestan, but there he was un-
lucky. The Lezges avoided open battle and carried out a guerrilla war of am-
bush and attacks on supply convoys. Nader’s troops suffered from lack of food,
and Nader himself was troubled by illness, probably liver disease caused origi-
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nally by malaria and exacerbated by heavy drinking. The sickness, which grew
worse after his return from India, was accompanied by great rages that became
more ungovernable as time went on. While he was in Daghestan in the sum-
mer of 1742, he was told that Reza Qoli had instigated an assassination at-
tempt against him. Reza Qoli denied his guilt. But Nader did not believe him
and had him blinded to prevent his ever taking the throne.
Nader’s failure in Daghestan, his illness, and above all his terrible remorse
over the blinding of his son brought about a crisis, a kind of breakdown,
from which he never recovered. Perhaps because of the poverty and humilia-
tions of his childhood, Nader’s family were of central importance to him,
and loyalty within the family had up to that time been unquestioned. It had
been one of the fixed points on which he had constructed his regime. Now
with that foundation given way, Nader’s actions no longer showed his for-
mer energy and drive to succeed, and he underwent a drastic mental and
physical decline. Withdrawing from Daghestan without having subdued the
Lezges tribes, he called new forces together—according to plans laid
months and years before—for another campaign in Ottoman Iraq.
When they gathered, his army numbered some 375,000 men—larger
than the combined forces of Austria and Prussia, the main protagonists in
the European theater of the Seven Years’ War when that conflict began thir-
teen years later.11 This was the most powerful single military force in the
world at that time. It was also, in the long term, an insupportable number of
troops for a state the size of Persia (no Iranian army would reach that size
again until the Iran/Iraq war of 1980–1988). It has been estimated that
whereas there were around thirty million people in the Ottoman territories
in the eighteenth century, and perhaps one hundred fifty million in the
Moghul Empire, Persia’s population was perhaps as low as six million, hav-
ing fallen from nine million before the Afghan revolt. Over the same period
the economy collapsed, as a result of invasion, war, and exactions to pay for
war.12
The army, and the taxation to pay for it, are recurring themes in Nader’s
story. Was this army a nomad host, or a modern military force? This points
to the wider question of whether Nader’s style of rule looked backward or
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 161
Nader the army increased greatly in size and cost, and he was forced to make
improvements in his capability for siege warfare. He began to reshape state
administration to make structures more efficient. These are all elements that
have been shown to be typical of the military revolution in Europe.
If Nader had reigned longer and more wisely, and had passed on his rule
to a competent successor, the drive to pay for his successful army could have
transformed the Persian state administration and ultimately the economy, as
happened in Europe. It could have brought about in Iran a modernizing
state capable of resisting colonial intervention in the following century. If
that had happened, Nader might today be remembered in the history of
Iran and the Middle East as a figure comparable with Peter the Great in
Russia: as a ruthless, militaristic reformer who set his country on a new
path. In the early 1740s he seemed set for great things—contemporaries
held their breath to see whether he could succeed in taking Ottoman Iraq
and establishing his supremacy through the Islamic world as a whole. He
had already achieved a large part of that task. Unfortunately, Nader’s de-
rangement in the last five years of his life meant that the expense of his mili-
tary innovations turned Persia into a desert rather than developing the
country. His insatiable demands for cash brought about his downfall and
the downfall of his dynasty.
Nader’s troops invaded Ottoman Iraq in 1743 and rapidly overran most of
the province, except the major cities. Baghdad and Basra were blockaded.
Nader brought up a new array of siege cannon and mortars to bombard
Kirkuk, which quickly surrendered, but the defense of Mosul was conducted
more resolutely. Nader’s new siege artillery pounded the walls and devastated
the interior of the city, but a lot of his men were killed in unsuccessful as-
saults, and he no longer had the will or patience to sustain a long siege. When
he withdrew, he sent peace proposals to the Ottomans. Mosul marked the
end of his ambition to subdue the Ottoman sultan and demonstrate his pre-
eminence in the Islamic world. It was another important turning point.
The latest round of forced contributions and requisitioning, to make
good the losses in Daghestan and provide for the campaign of 1743, had
caused great distress and resentment across Persia. Revolts broke out in As-
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 163
tarabad (led by Mohammad Hasan Khan Qajar, whose son was to found
the Qajar dynasty later in the century), Shiraz, and elsewhere. Early in 1744,
Nader withdrew to a camp near Hamadan, in order to be closer to the trou-
bles and coordinate action against them. The insurrections were put down
with great severity. Shiraz and Astarabad were devastated, and in each place
two white towers were erected, studded with niches that held the heads of
hundreds of executed men.
At length Nader realized that the Ottomans were not going to accept his
peace proposals—new Ottoman armies were advancing toward his frontiers.
Nader’s son Nasrollah defeated one of these forces, while Nader achieved vic-
tory over the other—near Yerevan, in the summer of 1745. This was his last
great victory, and it was followed by a treaty with the Ottomans in the follow-
ing year. But by this time, new revolts had broken out, driven by Nader’s op-
pressive practices: each place he visited was ransacked by his troops and tax
collectors, as if they were plundering enemies. His demands for money
reached insane levels, and cruel beatings, mutilations, and killings became
commonplace. His illness recurred and furthered his mental instability. By
the winter of 1746–1747 his crazy demands for money extended even to his
inner circle of family and close advisers, and no one could feel safe. His
nephew, Ali Qoli, joined a revolt in Sistan and refused to return to obedience.
Unlike previous rebels, Ali Qoli and his companions had contacts among
Nader’s closest attendants. In June 1747 Nader was assassinated by officers of
his own bodyguard near Mashhad. They burst into his tent in the harem
while he was sleeping. One of the assassins cut off his arm as he raised his
sword to defend himself, and then another sliced off his head.13
The short-lived nature of Nader’s achievements is one explanation for his
not being better known outside Iran, but it is not a sufficient one. With a
few exceptions Nader, having excited much interest and writing in Europe
among his eighteenth-century contemporaries, was largely ignored in the
nineteenth. Why should this have been so?
Without overstating the case, it seems plausible that it was because
Nader’s vigor and his successes fit badly with the crude Victorian view of the
Orient as incorrigibly decadent and corrupt, ripe for and in need of colo-
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duce this last section of his history serve well to summarize Nader’s career.
He wrote,
From the beginning of Nader Shah’s reign until his return from Khwarezm
and his march into Daghestan, he was entirely occupied with the care of his
empire and the administration of justice, in such a manner that the people of
Iran would have given their lives for his preservation; but after this time he
changed his conduct entirely. At the instigation of some hostile spirit, this un-
happy monarch listened to ill-intentioned spies, and had the eyes of Reza
Qoli, the best and the dearest of his sons, torn out. Remorse quickly followed
this rash cruelty, and Nader Shah became like a madman. The reports of bad
news that he received in succession thereafter of troubles in various parts of
his dominion increased his rage.14
was elected to be the first shah of the Durrani dynasty, founding a state
based on Kandahar, Herat, and Kabul that was to become modern Afghani-
stan. In this sense one could say that Afghanistan was founded in the muster
lists of Nader Shah. Another of Nader’s commanders, the Georgian Erekle,
who had accompanied him to Delhi, went home and established an inde-
pendent kingdom in Georgia. Most of the other ethnic and tribal groups
Nader had assembled in Khorasan returned home also, including the small
Zand tribe, originally from Lorestan (though perhaps ultimately of Kurdish
origin), under one of their leaders, Karim Khan, and the Bakhtiari, under
Ali Mardan Khan.
Adel Shah, who was unable to maintain control in an impoverished
country swarming with unemployed soldiers, was deposed after little more
than a year by his brother, Ebrahim. Other rulers followed, only to be de-
posed in turn: Nader’s surviving grandson, Shahrokh; then a Safavid descen-
dant of Shah Soleiman; then Shahrokh again (though he had been blinded
in the interim). Shahrokh remained in place from 1750 until 1796, seem-
ingly with the consent and even the protection of Ahmad Shah Durrani,
who respected him as the descendant of Nader. But from the early 1750s the
regime in Mashhad could exert little influence beyond Khorasan.15
Adel Shah’s brother Ebrahim had initially controlled Isfahan, but after he
moved east Karim Khan Zand and Ali Mardan Khan Bakhtiari took over
the western provinces, coming to an agreement with each other and ruling in
the name of another Safavid prince, Esma‘il III. Step-by-step Karim Khan
removed his rivals, killing Ali Mardan Khan in 1754 and deposing Esma‘il
in 1759. Karim Khan stabilized his regime by fighting off external rivals as
well: Azad Khan, another of Nader Shah’s Afghan commanders, who con-
trolled Azerbaijan; and Mohammad Hasan Khan Qajar, who had his power
base in Mazanderan. Karim Khan also fought the Ottomans and conquered
Basra, something Nader Shah had never achieved.
The rule of Karim Khan Zand created an island of relative calm and peace
in an otherwise bloody and destructive period. In the years of the Afghan re-
volt and the reign of Nader Shah, many cities in Iran were devastated by war
and repression (some, like Kerman, more than once—in 1719 and 1747—and
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 167
raised livestock and traded their surplus to supply the towns and villages
with wool and meat. In return they received goods they could not make for
themselves—some foodstuffs as well as weapons. But in addition to this
more open form of exchange, there was often an exchange on the basis of se-
curity, one that was more or less disguised. Peasants might pay tribute to a
local tribal leader to have their crops left alone at harvest time, or to avoid
raids that might otherwise result in their being carried off as slaves (espe-
cially in the northeast). On the other hand, the local tribal leader might have
been co-opted to serve as the regional governor, in which case he would col-
lect tax instead of protection money. But in general, the tribes and their
leaders tended to have the upper hand, which they exploited politically.
Their position of supremacy was only decisively overturned when the twen-
tieth century was quite well advanced.
Karim Khan Zand did not have Nader’s insatiable love of war or his lust
for conquest, and his governmental system was less highly geared. After re-
moving Esma‘il, Karim Khan refused to make himself shah, ruling instead as
vakil-e ra’aya (deputy or regent of the people)—a modern-sounding title that
probably reflected his awareness of the weariness of the Iranian people and
their longing for peace. He restored traditional Shi‘ism as the religion in his
territories, dropping Nader’s experiment with Sunnism. Karim Khan chose
Shiraz as his capital, and built mosques, elegant gardens, and palaces that still
stand—erasing the scars of the revolt of 1744 and beautifying the city that
had been the home of Sa’di and Hafez. Karim Khan ruled there until his
death in 1779. He was a ruthless, tough leader, as was necessary in those harsh
times, but he also acquired an enduring reputation for modesty, compassion,
pragmatism, and good government, unlike most of his rivals. His reputation
shone the brighter for the surrounding ugliness and violence of his times.
Renewed War
After Karim Khan’s death, Persia lapsed again into the misery of civil war.
This time the struggle was between various Zand princes on the one side
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 169
and the Qajars, based in Mazanderan, on the other. The Qajars were united
by Agha Mohammad Khan (son of Mohammad Hasan Khan Qajar), who
had fallen into the hands of Adel Shah in 1747 or 1748 and had been cas-
trated at Adel Shah’s orders when he was only five or six years old. After that
Agha Mohammad was kept as a hostage by Karim Khan but was treated
kindly.21 Agha Mohammad grew up to be a fiercely intelligent, pragmatic
man, but also grim and bitter, with a bad temper and a vicious cruel streak
that grew worse as he got older. He was never able to overcome the loss of
his manhood. Contemporary illustrations depicted him as looking drawn
and beardless as a sign of it.
When Karim Khan died, Agha Mohammad escaped to the north, where
he successfully conciliated other branches of the Qajar tribe that had previ-
ously feuded with his family. But he had to fight his own brothers to estab-
lish his dominance. Agha Mohammad’s rise was much more firmly based on
his lineage and on the Qajar tribe than that of Nader Shah had been based
on the Afshars. Once his supremacy within the tribe was achieved, Agha
Mohammad ejected Zand forces from Mazanderan and began campaigning
south of the Alborz mountains, with the help of the Yomut Turkmen allies
that had long supported his family. But when he arrived outside Tehran, the
gates were closed against him. The citizens politely told him that the Zands
were in charge in Isfahan. That meant that the people of Tehran had to obey
the Zands, but it also implied that if Agha Mohammad Khan could take Is-
fahan, they would obey him, too. Agha Mohammad marched on to Isfahan,
taking it in the early part of 1785. He was then duly accepted into Tehran in
March 1786, after other successful campaigning in the west. From then on it
became clear that he intended to establish himself as ruler of the whole
country, and Tehran has been the capital since that time.
There was to be much more fighting before Agha Mohammad could rule
supreme, and he was still far from secure in the south. Isfahan changed
hands several times. But the Zands could not deliver a knockout blow ei-
ther, and in January 1789 their leader ( Ja‘far Khan) was assassinated. The
ruling family of the Zands then fought among themselves for the leadership,
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until Lotf Ali Khan Zand, a young grand-nephew of Karim Khan, entered
Shiraz in May 1789, establishing his control.
Lotf Ali Khan was young and charismatic and a natural focus for the
hopes of those who remembered the prestige of his great uncle, but militar-
ily he was at a disadvantage from the start. He fought off an attack by Agha
Mohammad in June 1789, but when he made a move on Isfahan in 1791
Shiraz revolted against him behind his back. He returned but was blocked
from re-entering his former capital and was forced to lay siege to the city.
The Shirazis sent for help to Agha Mohammad—and sent Lotf Ali Khan’s
family as prisoners to him too. Lotf Ali Khan was able to defeat a combined
force of Qajars and troops from Shiraz, but the city still held out. Then in
1792 Agha Mohammad himself marched south with a large army. By this
time Agha Mohammad was showing some of the fierce anger and vicious
cruelty for which he later became notorious. At one point he saw a coin
minted in Lotf Ali’s name and became so enraged that he gave orders for the
Zand’s son to be castrated.
Lotf Ali Khan now nearly brought off a coup that could have won him
the war. As Agha Mohammad approached Shiraz, he camped with his Qajar
troops near the ancient sites of Persepolis and Istakhr. After night fell, Lotf
Ali approached the camp with a smaller force and attacked from several di-
rections in the dark. Chaos erupted. Lotf Ali sent thirty or forty men right
into the camp, penetrating as far as Agha Mohammad’s private compound,
which was defended against them by a few musketeers. At this point one of
Agha Mohammad’s courtiers went to Lotf Ali and told him that Agha Mo-
hammad had fled. The battle appeared to be over and Lotf Ali was per-
suaded that further fighting would only risk his own troops killing one
another in the dark. He ordered his men to sheathe their sabres. Many of
them dispersed, plundered the parts of the camp they were in control of, and
left the scene with the booty. But when dawn came Lotf Ali discovered to
his horror that Agha Mohammad was still there. He had not fled, and the
Qajar troops were regrouping around him. With only one thousand of his
own men still with him, Lotf Ali Khan was surrounded and outnumbered.
He quickly withdrew, fleeing eastward.22
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From this point on Lotf Ali Khan’s support began to dwindle away. He
captured Kerman, but Agha Mohammad Khan moved against the city and
besieged it. The Qajars broke into the city by treachery in October 1794
and Lotf Ali Khan fled to Bam. Agha Mohammad ordered that the women
and children of Kerman be given over to his soldiers as slaves; the surviving
men were to be blinded. To ensure that his orders were followed, he de-
manded that the men’s eyeballs be cut out, brought to him in baskets, and
poured out on the floor. There were twenty thousand of them. Sir John
Malcolm recorded that these blinded victims were later to be found begging
across Persia, telling the story of the disaster that had befallen their city.23
Lotf Ali Khan was betrayed in Bam and was taken in chains to Agha Mo-
hammad, who ordered his Turkmen slaves to do to him “what had been
done by the people of Lot.” After the gang rape, Lotf Ali Khan was blinded
and sent to Tehran, where he was tortured to death.24
Agha Mohammad Khan was now the undisputed master of the Iranian
plateau. He turned to the northwest, where he marched into Georgia and re-
asserted Persian sovereignty. In September 1795 he conquered Tbilisi after a
furious battle in which the Georgians seemed to be winning at several
points, despite their inferior numbers. Thousands were massacred in Tbilisi,
and fifteen thousand women and children were taken away as slaves. But the
king of Georgia had put himself under Russian protection in 1783, and the
destruction of Tbilisi caused anger in St Petersburg. Later on, it was to
bring humiliation for Persia in the Caucasus.
In the spring of 1796 Agha Mohammad had himself crowned on the
Moghan plain, where Nader Shah had assumed the same dignity exactly
sixty years earlier. At the coronation Agha Mohammad wore armbands on
which were mounted the Darya-ye Nur and the Taj-e Mah jewels taken from
Lotf Ali Khan, which had previously belonged to Nader Shah. Agha Mo-
hammad Khan liked jewels. After the coronation he marched east to Kho-
rasan, where he accepted the submission of Shahrokh, Nader Shah’s
grandson. He had Shahrokh tortured until he gave up more jewels, also
from the treasure Nader had brought away from Delhi. Shahrokh died of
the treatment shortly afterward, in Damghan.
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Agha Mohammad Shah had now resumed control of the main territories
of Safavid Persia, with the exception of the Afghan provinces. But he did
not enjoy them, or his jewels, for long. In June 1797, while campaigning in
what is now Nagorno-Karabakh, he was stabbed to death by two of his ser-
vants, whom he had sentenced to be executed but unwisely left alive and at
liberty overnight.
The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 173
The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 175
control of the Arabian peninsula and the holy places. But the Al-Saud and
the Wahhabis returned to take control of most of the Arabian peninsula in
the twentieth century.
The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 177
Fortunately Persia is at present happier and more tranquil than it has been for
a long period; and its reigning monarch, who has already occupied the throne
seventeen years, by the comparative mildness and justice of his rule has al-
ready entitled himself to a high rank among the Kings of Persia.30
to handle things. In 1800 the company sent a very able young man, the fu-
ture historian John Malcolm, with a retinue of some five hundred men, in-
cluding a military escort of one hundred Indian cavalry. The almost royal
progress of this caravan made a strong impression, as did the lavish gifts the
company could afford to send with it. The government of India and its
counterpart in London had been shocked by Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt
in 1798, and alarmed by a French mission to Tehran in 1796. They were de-
termined to make an alliance with Persia to secure the western approaches
to India. The alliance could also be used against the danger of Afghan incur-
sion into northern India. In January 1801 political and commercial treaties
were signed, according to which the French were to be excluded from Persia,
and Fath Ali Shah agreed to attack the Afghans if the Afghans made any in-
cursion in India. The British agreed to send “cannon and warlike stores” if
the Afghans or the French were to attack Persia. The company’s commercial
privileges in Persia were confirmed and enhanced, and a solid Anglo-Persian
alliance seemed to be taking shape.31
But the big question mark over the treaties was Russia, which was a more
immediate concern for the Persians than France. After Agha Mohammad’s
massacre at Tbilisi in 1795, the Russians established a protectorate in Geor-
gia, stationed troops there in 1799, and later abolished the Georgian monar-
chy after the death of its king—effectively annexing the territory. Fath Ali
Shah continued to declare Persia’s sovereignty over Georgia, to no avail, and
Russian generals speculated about pushing the Russian frontier farther
south, to the Araxes. In 1804, led by a brutal general called Tsitsianov, the
Russians set about it in earnest, taking Ganja and massacring as many as
three thousand people there (including five hundred Muslims who had
taken sanctuary in a mosque). They fought an inconclusive battle against
Fath Ali Shah’s son Abbas Mirza outside Yerevan. But as Nader Shah had
discovered to his cost, and as many later Russian military men including
Tolstoy and Lermontov were to confirm, the Caucasus was an awkward
place to go soldiering. The war proved more difficult than Tsitsianov had an-
ticipated, and a little later the Persians succeeded in killing him by a trick.
The Russians suggested some negotiations with the Persian governor of
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 179
Baku, but the Persian governor, suspecting bad faith, made preparations for
an assassination. Tsitsianov and the governor both went to the appointed
meeting place with just three attendants each, but when they arrived the
governor’s nephew shot Tsitsianov through the chest.32
In the meantime, British interest in Persia had faded. It was complicated:
after a short peace between Britain and France, hostilities reopened between
them, and whereas before 1801 the British had suspected Russia of wanting
to cooperate with the French against India, they now secured an alliance
with Russia against Napoleon. Fath Ali Shah invoked the Treaty of 1801
and asked the British for help against Russia in the Caucasus, but the
British valued their northern ally more than their Persian one. They ignored
the request.
Seeing an opportunity, the French made overtures to the Persians and in
May 1807 Fath Ali Shah agreed to sign the Treaty of Finckenstein with
them (the treaty was signed in East Prussia, as Napoleon’s army recovered
from the bloody Battle of Eylau and prepared for a renewed attack on the
Russians). This was a mirror image of the previous treaty with the British:
the Persians agreed to expel the British and to attack India; Napoleon recog-
nized Persian sovereignty over Georgia and promised military assistance
against the Russians; and a mission under the Frenchman Claude Matthieu,
Count Gardane, set out for Tehran to fulfill those terms. But before Gar-
dane could get there Napoleon defeated the Russians decisively at Friedland
in June 1807, and signed a treaty of alliance with the Russian tsar at Tilsit
the next month. The diplomatic dance swung around, and the partners
changed again.
With a French military mission in Tehran training up a Persian army to
invade India, the British were impressed once more with the urgency of an al-
liance with Fath Ali Shah. But because the government in London and the
East India Company government in India could not agree on which should
take precedence in policy on Persia, they sent two competing missions—one
from London under Sir Harford Jones, and one from Bombay again headed
by John Malcolm. Malcolm got to Persia first but was allowed no farther than
Bushire, because of Fath Ali Shah’s commitments to the French; Malcolm
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sailed back to Bombay in July 1808 after three fruitless months. Meanwhile,
Count Gardane was in an impossible position, training Persians whose only
real interest was in the continuing war with Russia and the re-conquest of
Georgia. And Russia was now France’s ally. Harford Jones succeeded where
Malcolm had failed, reaching Tehran in March 1809. Gardane, by now dis-
credited, flitted out of the country a month later, abandoning France’s com-
mitments to Persia.
Jones and the Persians signed a Treaty of Friendship and Alliance that
went further than the Treaty of 1801 and gave the Persians more watertight
guarantees. The Persians were to receive help against any invading European
power, even if Britain had made a separate peace with that power, provided
Persia was not the aggressor. The help was to be in the form of British troops,
or failing that, subsidies, cannon, muskets, and British officers. For his part,
the shah undertook not to do anything to endanger British interests in India,
and to give military assistance in case of an attack by the Afghans.
But although the British encouraged Fath Ali Shah to continue the costly
war with the Russians, when Napoleon attacked Russia in 1812 Britain and
Russia again became allies, and Britain’s enthusiasm for helping Persia
against the Russians evaporated. The war in the Caucasus was now, for
Britain, an embarrassment that needed tidying up. Although the Persians
fought hard with some successes under Fath Ali’s son Abbas Mirza, their
failures were more damaging, culminating in October 1812 in a heavy defeat
at Aslanduz on the Araxes. Britain served as a mediator for a peace signed at
Golestan in October 1813. The treaty was a terrible humiliation. Persia kept
Yerevan and Nakhichevan, but lost everything else north of the Araxes, in-
cluding Daghestan, Shirvan, and Georgia, and cities that had been part of
the Persian Empire for centuries—Darband, Baku, Tblisi, and Ganja
among them.33 It also included provisions that only the Russians could
maintain warships on the Caspian Sea, and that Russia would recognize and
support the legitimate heir to the throne of Persia. This last point gave the
Russians a locus for meddling in the royal succession, which was to prove se-
riously damaging. When the terms of the treaty became known, they caused
anger in Persia and calls for renewed jihad against the Russians, led by belli-
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 181
cose mullahs in the towns. Abbas Mirza regarded the treaty only as a truce,
and redoubled his efforts to turn the army he controlled in Azerbaijan into a
modernized force that could fight the Russians on equal terms.
It didn’t work. War was renewed with Russia in 1826, after a period in
which Abbas Mirza drew further help from the British (who with the final
defeat of Napoleon in 1815 grew more anti-Russian again), and another ag-
gressive Russian general, Yermolov, did his best to alienate the new subject
populations—over-interpreting the terms of the Golestan treaty and fur-
ther irritating the Persians. Yermolov proved more belligerent in peace than
in war, and the Persians made some initial gains, marching toward Tbilisi
and up the Caspian coast. Many local leaders went over to the Persian side,
and Yermolov abandoned Ganja. But soon Russian reinforcements arrived
under more active commanders. Once war was begun, the British refused
further help, pointing to the clause in the Treaty of 1809 that exempted
them from doing so if Persia were the aggressor. Before the year was out the
armies of Abbas Mirza and his brother Mohammad Mirza were defeated in
separate battles, Ganja was retaken, and the Persians were back where they
had started. In 1827 the Russians advanced farther, taking Yerevan at the be-
ginning of October and Tabriz later in the month.
The mountains and forests of the Caucasus were ideal country for guer-
rilla warfare, and if, especially in this second war, when the local tribes were
ill-disposed toward the Russians, the Persians had fought in that way, they
might have been more successful. The Lezges had fought off Nader Shah
with guerrilla tactics in the 1740s, and they (with the Chechens) would give
the Russians enormous difficulties in the long wars they fought in the de-
cades after 1830. But the Persians had seen themselves as equals of the Rus-
sians, and had aspired to fight them in the open field. They disdained to fight
the hit-and-run war of the ragged Sunni tribesmen of the Caucasus, whose
overlords they had been for centuries. That was their mistake; they were not
flexible enough, and misjudged the measure of Russian military superiority.
Peace was concluded at Turkmanchai in February 1828, with even more
humiliating terms than those of Golestan. Persia lost Yerevan, and the border
was set at the river Araxes. Persia had to pay Russia twenty million rubles as
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The Fall of the Safavids and the Early Years of the Qajar Dynasty 183
S
N 0 200
Baku
km
Yere van R .
A ras
Merv
La k e Aslanduz C a s p i a n
V an
Ashkhabad
Ardebil S e a
Tabriz
Quchan
Mianeh Enzeli
Urmiyeh Astarabad
Maragha Resht Mashhad
K
MAZ Nishapur
AND
H
Zanjan E RA N
O
Qazvin
R
Tehran Turbat-e-Haidari
A
S
K U R D I S TA N A Herat
N
Hamadan Qom Dasht-e K avir
Qasr-e-Shirin Qain
Kermanshah Saltanabad Tabas
Kerend Kashan
Birjand AFGHANISTAN
Bo rujerd
Baghdad L O R E S TA N
Da
Ti
gri s
sh
R. Isfahan -e
t
Dezful Lu
Yazd t
Shushtar S I STA N .
Masjed-e-Soleiman dR
H e l ma n
E u p hr
n
a t es
ru
R. Ahwaz Kerman
Ka
Mohammerah
OTTOMAN Basra
INDIA
Kazerun Bam
EMPIRE Shiraz
Bushire
pre-1801 border FARS
Bampur
1813 border Bandar Abbas
Lingeh M A KR A N
1828 border
P e r s i a n Jask Chahbahar
NO T E . T he bo rders o f Persia in the no r theast and
east were defined by ag reements with Russia and G u l f
Britain in the latter par t o f the nineteenth cent ur y. Gul f of Oman
was large by comparison with those that had fought the civil wars forty years
earlier, but the Russians had lost a larger number of men as casualties in a
single day when they fought Napoleon at Borodino in 1812. The Russians
had some difficulties getting troops to the Caucasus and in supplying them
once there, but their reserves of manpower and war materials were impossi-
ble for the Persians to equal—even if the Persians could have come up to the
Russian standard of drill, training, and staff work.
The point was not that the Persians were bad soldiers, nor really that they
had fallen behind technologically (not yet). It was just that the Qajar state
was not the same kind of state, nor was it trying to be.37 It controlled its terri-
tory loosely, through proxies and alliances with local tribes. The state bu-
reaucracy was small, revolving around the court much as it had in the days of
the Safavids. It has been estimated that between a half and a third of the
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/29/09 9:46 AM Page 184
6
The Crisis of the
Qajar Monarchy, the
Revolution of 1905–1911,
and the Accession of the
Pahlavi Dynasty
Fath Ali Shah died in 1834, shortly after the death of his son, Abbas Mirza,
who had been his designated heir. This meant that another son, Moham-
mad, took the throne. Mohammad Shah’s accession was supported by both
the Russians and the British and was achieved peacefully—they judged,
185
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 186
correctly, that he would uphold the treaties that gave them their privileges
within Persia. But his reign brought few benefits for the Persian people. He
made little real effort to develop the country or defend its essential inter-
ests, despite the increasingly manifest developmental gap between Persia
and Europe. His first prime minister was a reformer, but the shah had him
strangled in 1835. Persian merchants began to protest the fact that cheap
European products, especially textiles, were coming onto Persian markets
with low or no tariffs and were undercutting domestic craftsmen, destroy-
ing their livelihoods. Predictably, the merchants who made a profit from
handling the imports kept quiet.
Perhaps partly in reaction to the defeat in war, the humiliating treaty of
Turkmanchai, and the increasing and unwelcome presence of foreigners and
foreign influences, there were attacks on minorities in the 1830s—especially
the Jews. These tended to be led, as at other times, by preachers or mullahs
of marginal status who disregarded the established, humane, and dignified
precepts of their faith for the temporary popularity that could accrue from
extremism and hatred. A serious attack by a mob in Tabriz in 1830 seems to
have resulted in the death or flight of most of the previous Jewish popula-
tion there. It may have begun (like similar cases in medieval Europe) with a
false allegation that a Muslim child had been murdered by a Jew.2 Other
such attacks followed elsewhere in Azerbaijan, prompting Jews to begin
avoiding the whole province. There were also forced conversions of Jews in
Shiraz and other places: in Mashhad in 1839 a riot broke out and many Jews
were killed before moderate Shi‘a clergy intervened. The Jews were then
forced to convert or flee.3 For many years the converts, called jadidi, kept to
themselves in their own communities; many such converts still observed
Jewish rites in private, and some eventually reverted to Judaism, risking be-
ing accused of apostasy if they did. Later in the century there were similar
outbreaks at Babol on the Caspian Sea (in 1866) and in Hamadan (1892).4
Jewish and other travelers recorded that the Jews they saw were generally liv-
ing in poor ghettoes and were subject to daily low-level intimidation and hu-
miliation, though their position may have improved toward the end of the
century, in some places at least. There was persecution elsewhere in the Is-
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 187
lamic world at the same time, and some have suggested that the impact of
European anti-Semitic writings was a factor.5 No doubt only a small minor-
ity of Muslims were actively involved in attacks, and there is evidence that
some ulema and others did what they could to prevent or limit them. But as
in other times and other places, it could not have happened at all without
the majority preferring to look away. The Armenians seem generally to have
avoided this degree of persecution in this period.
Despite their agreement on the succession, in the time of Mohammad
Shah the British and Russians were still rivals in Persia, Afghanistan, and
Central Asia. This rivalry came to be called The Great Game. Before the
war of 1826–1828, the British had supported the Persians against the Rus-
sians; now the Russians encouraged Mohammad Shah to take compensa-
tion for Persia’s loss of territory in that war by grabbing back the former
territories of Herat and Kandahar in the east. Mohammad Shah sent troops
to Herat in 1837, besieging the place for a few months.6 But the British, who
disliked the prospect of any encroachment in Afghanistan that might
threaten India or make Russian access to India any easier, occupied Kharg
Island in the Persian Gulf and demanded that Mohammed Shah quit Af-
ghanistan. He withdrew in 1838 and made further trading concessions to
Britain in a new treaty in 1841.
Hajji Mirza Aqasi, Mohammad Shah’s second prime minister (who had
been instrumental in the removal and killing of the first), was pro-Sufi and
encouraged the shah to follow his example. Fath Ali Shah had always been
careful to conciliate the ulema, but Mohammad Shah’s Sufi inclinations
made him deeply unpopular with them, bringing forward again the ever-
latent Shi‘a antagonism toward secular authority.
Muslim calendar—a year that had been long awaited as the one-thousandth
anniversary of the disappearance of the twelfth Emam. Since the eighteenth
century, followers of a branch of Shi‘ism called Shaykhism had speculated
that there must be a gate (“Bab”) through which the Hidden Emam could
communicate with the faithful. This Bab was expected to take the form of a
person, and as the year 1260 approached, some Shaykhis grew increasingly
excited that the Bab might be revealed in that year. When the time finally
came, some people identified a particular pious young man from Shiraz,
Seyyed Ali Mohammad, as the Bab. In May 1844 he declared that he was in-
deed the Bab and began preaching against the shortcomings of the ulema.
He advocated better treatment of women (thereby attracting many female
followers), recommended that the Islamic ban on interest be lifted, argued
that judicial punishments should be made less harsh, and urged that chil-
dren should be better treated. From one perspective his teaching looks pro-
gressive; from another it appears as little more than the conventional
teaching of the milder strand of orthodox Shi‘ism. But in 1848 the Bab and
his followers began preaching that the Bab was in fact the Hidden Emam
himself, and that their faith was a new belief—one superseding the previous
revelation of Islam. This changed the position, putting the Babis and the
ulema in direct conflict. The Bab was soon taken into custody.
One of the most remarkable and radical of the Bab’s followers was a
woman from Qazvin, Qorrat al-Ain, who discarded the veil as a sign that
shari‘a law had been set aside. She was a poet, debated theology with the
ulema, and preached the emancipation of women. She was sent into exile in
Iraq at one point, but later returned. Like the Bab, she was arrested. But un-
like him, she was still able to speak to her followers while under house arrest.
When Mohammad Shah died in 1848 his seventeen-year-old son Naser
od-Din took the throne, again with the support of the Russians and the
British. The boy was thoughtful and intelligent in appearance, with large
dark eyes and a dreamy tendency; he could lose himself for hours in books
of Persian folk tales.7
But after the accession of the new shah, there were revolts involving Babis
in Fars, Mazanderan, and in Zanjan, which were crushed by the government
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 189
with great severity. Following these disturbances, which have been linked to
social upheavals elsewhere in the world at this time, the Bab was executed in
Tabriz in 1850. The story is that the firing squad had to shoot twice, because
the first time the bullets only cut the ropes binding him, setting him free.
Animosity between the Babis and the monarchy escalated rapidly. In August
1852 three Babis tried to assassinate the new shah. Although they failed,
there was a harsh backlash. Later that same year Qorrat al-Ain was killed by
her captors, along with most of the other leaders of the movement, and the
Bab’s followers were viciously persecuted as heretics and apostates. The new
faith appeared to be a challenge to both the secular and the religious author-
ities, and as such stood little chance, despite converting quite large numbers.
Many thousands of Babis died, and others left the country.
The movement continued to grow in exile. In the 1860s it split, with a
new leader, Baha’ullah, announcing himself as the new prophet (“He
Whom God Shall Make Manifest”) predicted by the Bab. Most Babis fol-
lowed Baha’ullah, and since that time his movement has been known as the
Baha’i faith. Within Iran, Baha’is have been persecuted and killed in almost
every decade since that time.
The story of Qorrat al-Ain and her advocacy of women’s emancipation is
an important point in the history of women in Persia, and therefore for the
story of Iranian society as a whole. There are some surprises here. From our
viewpoint in the early twenty-first century, with the Islamic regime in power
in Iran and with what is often perceived (not entirely accurately) as a tradi-
tional role for women reimposed since the revolution of 1979, one might as-
sume that before the twentieth century all Iranian women were closeted at
home and never went out except when heavily veiled. But this is not at all
the case. Before the social changes brought by industrialization and urban-
ization, the structure of society was very different. Before 1900, up to half
the population were nomadic or semi-nomadic, and in such societies, tightly
integrated and often living at both the geographical and economic margins,
women’s roles were of necessity more equal and less restricted. Broadly
speaking, women oversaw the domestic arrangements while men ranged
widely looking after the flocks. But with the men away, the women had to
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 191
may largely underpin them. Possession of material goods had its patterns
and its social consequences, but so also did the possession of women.
As the population later became steadily more urban and in some ways at
least more prosperous, more women were more restricted, stayed in the home
more, and wore the heavy veil. But we should not think of those arrange-
ments as typical of pre-industrial Iran; one could accurately say that for the
majority of Iranian women, they were a twentieth-century innovation.
The conflict with the Babis around the time of Naser od-Din’s accession
was only one of the problems he had to deal with. There was a serious revolt
in Khorasan that took two years to overcome, an army mutiny in Tehran,
and serious infighting between officials at court in which the Russian and
British ambassadors both meddled, anxious that each might outdo the
other. In this confused and dangerous situation, the shah’s first minister,
Amir Kabir, attempted to steer the government in a reforming direction,
urging the shah to take a personal interest in the details of government.
Kabir’s influence over the young shah stemmed from the time he had spent
with him as Naser od-Din’s right-hand man, when Naser od-Din had been
crown prince and governor of Azerbaijan. Kabir was disliked by the Rus-
sians because they thought him to be pro-British, but the British were none
too keen on him either.9
An able and intelligent man, Amir Kabir was dedicated to the interests of
the monarchy and the country. He made a review of finances and enforced a
retrenchment in state expenditures, especially on payments and pensions to
courtiers. This inevitably made him unpopular with some members of the
court. He set up a state-funded school or polytechnic along western lines—
the Dar al-Funun, which in later years collaborated to publish translations
of Western technical books and literature—and organized a thoroughgoing
reform of the army to bring it properly up-to-date. He set about some im-
provements in agriculture, and even tried to build some factories for manu-
factured products. All this was achieved within three years, showing what
was possible and promising greater things for the future. But the thickets of
court politics proved too much for Amir Kabir. He made the mistake of try-
ing to intercede with Naser od-Din on behalf of the shah’s half-brother, an
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 192
effort that offended both the shah and the shah’s mother, who had signifi-
cant influence at court. In time, Amir Kabir’s critics succeeded in eroding
the shah’s confidence in him, without which he was powerless. In November
1851 Amir Kabir was dismissed as prime minister and sent to Kashan. At
the beginning of 1852 Naser od-Din, influenced by his courtiers and rela-
tives and following the precedent set by his grandfather and father before
him, had his former first minister murdered. When Amir Kabir died, so did
hope for any kind of serious push for development in Persia, at a time when
elsewhere in the world, not just in Europe, the motors of industrialization
and major structural change were accelerating.
Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 193
the globe, yielding benefits for communications and commerce that could
have been highly valuable for Persia too, particularly so given the huge dis-
tances and impossible roads of the Iranian plateau, no railways were built.
The British and Russians disliked the idea for strategic reasons; railways
could have delivered hostile armies more rapidly to their respective borders.
By the end of Naser od-Din’s reign in 1896 there was still only one railway
in Persia. It was a narrow-gauge line built by the Belgians, running out of
Tehran to a little shrine town five miles away—the shrine of Shah Abd ol-
Azim—which was to prove a fateful backdrop to several important events
over the next few years.11
What were the real interests of Britain and Russia in Persia at this time?
How damaging was their involvement? There are a number of different ele-
ments to these questions. Britain and Russia stood for different things in the
nineteenth century, and for different aspects of the European model. Britain
stood for, or appeared to stand for, progress, liberalism, science, commerce,
and improvement. In contrast, Russia stood for the traditional order in Eu-
rope—for the adaptation of modern tools to maintain the status quo of the
old dynastic monarchies, for the Orthodox Christian church, and against
political radicalism. Both had their attractions for different interests and
groups in Persia. But both states, whatever impression they might have
given, were primarily concerned with their own strategic interests, in which
the interests of the Persians had little part. Both had other, greater priorities.
And both loomed much larger to Persians than did Persia in the calcula-
tions of either. Each power would edge ahead of the other, if it could, but
was normally content to reach a modus vivendi with the other over Persia—
which meant stasis and avoiding surprises. This rivalry was good in one way:
it made it difficult for either power to take Persia as a colony. One could
claim that Britain prevented Russia from overwhelming Persia altogether in
the nineteenth century, and vice versa. But the negative was that both pow-
ers were suspicious of change or of vigorous Persian reformers who might
shake things up or give an advantage to their rival. As time went on, the shah
was more and more suspicious of change and reform, too. The result was
stagnation.
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After a decade of personal rule, in 1871 the shah appointed a first minis-
ter again. This was Mirza Hosein Khan, who had served the shah overseas
as a diplomat, notably in Istanbul, where he had seen the effects of some of
the Tanzimat reforms in the Ottoman Empire. Convinced that similar
change needed to happen in Persia, he encouraged Naser od-Din Shah to
travel so that he could see for himself some of the developments taking place
in other countries. In 1872 Mirza Hosein Khan succeeded in persuading the
shah to agree to what was called the Reuter concession. This was a remark-
able initiative, a blueprint for development of the most sweeping kind, in-
cluding a railway from the Caspian to the south, mining rights, and all kinds
of industrial and other economic improvements. It could have brought ben-
efits, but the trade-off was that it abandoned a huge swath of sovereign
rights to the foreigner putting up the money for those improvements: the
Baron de Reuter, a British Jew born in Germany and the founder of the
Reuters news agency. In return for the concession, the shah received £40,000
as an advance.
Over the previous decades, the Iranian economy had changed and shifted
in response to an increasing penetration of markets by foreigners. Many Ira-
nian products proved unable to compete with cheap imports, while agricul-
ture began producing more for export (cotton and opium, for example). The
reduced capacity for domestic food production contributed to a number of
severe famines, especially in 1870–1871, in which it has been estimated that
up to one-tenth of the population perished.12 The changes left many people
angry and contributed to the opposition to the Reuter concession. The shah
returned from a visit to Europe in 1873 to powerful demands for the re-
moval of Mirza Hosein Khan, and he duly went.
The Reuter concession was also strongly disliked by the Russians, and
the shah had discovered while in Europe that the British were no better
than lukewarm about it. Along with the domestic opposition, this was
enough for the shah to find an excuse to cancel it in the same year. But there
followed an extended dispute over the advance, which the shah held on to.
Eventually, in 1889, Baron de Reuter was given another concession in com-
pensation—he was allowed to set up the Imperial Bank of Persia, with the
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 195
exclusive right to print paper currency. Up to that time, the British were able
to use the Reuter dispute to prevent Russian proposals for a railway from
going ahead. But in 1879 the Russians helped the shah set up the Iranian
Cossack Brigade, which was led by Russian officers. This became the most
modern, best-disciplined armed force in the country, and was loyal to the
shah—but it was also an instrument of Russian influence.
For a period in the 1870s, the British government considered a more pos-
itive attitude toward Persia, which could have resulted in Persia becoming a
genuine ally rather than a dupe and a cat’s-paw.13 This episode was prompted
by Russian conquests in Central Asia—notably the surrender to them of
Khiva in 1873—but also by the deterioration of British influence in Af-
ghanistan. In 1879 the foreign secretary Lord Salisbury, briefly setting aside
the policy of “masterly inactivity” governing Britain’s attitude to the borders
of India, considered a plan that would have given Herat to Naser od-Din
Shah, along with a subsidy from the British government and help with in-
ternal reforms. Persia would have become a partner and an ally, an essential
element in Britain’s colonial defenses rather than a theater for spoiling ac-
tions to prevent the Russians gaining influence. It would have been in
Britain’s interests to help build up Persia, rather than keeping Persia down.
Talks went on between the British and the Persians in London, led on the
Persian side by Malkom Khan, head of the Persian diplomatic mission
there. But in the end Naser od-Din Shah broke off the negotiations. The
British believed that this was because the Russians had intervened to block
them. The liberal government that followed was not inclined to take up the
talks again, and the opportunity was lost, but the episode shows that the
realpolitik pursued by Britain vis-à-vis Persia was not necessarily the in-
evitable and logical corollary to their imperial position. A cynical policy, or a
policy of realpolitik as its proponents would call it, may sometimes be pur-
sued out of laziness and lack of imagination rather than anything else. The
cynical policy maker cannot predict the future any more than the moralist
can, but he knows that at least he cannot be accused of starry-eyed idealism.
Sometimes that edge is all it takes to allow the cynic to dominate. Truly far-
sighted politicians sometimes insist that if you get the principles right, then
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the small change of policy will look after itself. But often the principles get
lost along the way, and cynicism and short-termism prevail. The cynicism of
British policy in Persia was to do great damage in the longer term.
Malkom Khan was a significant figure in the latter part of the nineteenth
century. He was born in 1833, the son of an Armenian father who had con-
verted to Islam, and who had so admired Sir John Malcolm that he named
his son after him. Malkom Khan was educated in Paris, and on his return to
Persia taught at the Dar al-Funun. But the shah became suspicious of his re-
forming ideas and his influence, and his later service as a diplomat outside
Iran had something of the character of exile. Eventually, at the end of the
1880s, Malkom Khan fell from favor altogether. He stayed on in London to
produce the newspaper Qanun, which pressed for an end to arbitrary govern-
ment and for the establishment of the rule of law, based on a constitution.
This paper was distributed in Iran and was widely read among the educated
elite. After Naser od-Din’s death, Malkom Khan was reconciled to the gov-
ernment. He died in 1908.
Reform-minded officials continued to come and go in Persia through the
1880s, but without the full support of the shah they were unable to get any
traction. The shah continued to negotiate concessions to foreigners, but in
1890 he went too far with a tobacco concession, granting monopoly rights to
a British company that enabled them to buy, sell, and export tobacco with-
out competition. This drew opposition from a formidable alliance of oppo-
nents: landlords and tobacco growers, who found themselves forced to sell at
a fixed price; bazaar traders, who saw themselves once more frozen out of a lu-
crative sector of the economy; the readership of new reform- and nationalist-
oriented newspapers operating from overseas; and the ulema, who were
closely aligned to the bazaar traders and disliked the foreign presence in the
country. This combination of interests became the classic pattern, repeated
in later movements. Coordinated largely through the network of connec-
tions between the mullahs across the country (making use of the new tele-
graph system), mass protests against the concession took place in most of
the major cities in 1891. They culminated in something like a revolt in
Tabriz and a demonstration in Tehran that was fired on by troops, leading
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 199
had an earlier opportunity to kill the shah, while he was walking in a park,
and had not done so—despite the fact that he could easily have escaped be-
cause he knew that a number of Jews had been in the park that day and that
they would be blamed for the killing. Kermani did not want the assassination
to be blamed on the Jews and did not want to be responsible for the riots and
attacks on Jews that might follow.16 For every anti-Semitic preacher or rabble-
rouser, there were many educated, humane Iranians—clerics and others—
for whom it was a matter of conscience to do what they could to help the
Jews and other minorities, irrespective of the radicalism that might character-
ize their other beliefs.
The sudden death of the shah could have brought disorder and confu-
sion. But for a time courtiers were able to conceal what had happened, and
the Cossack Brigade kept order in Tehran until Naser od-Din’s appointed
successor, his son Mozaffar od-Din, could arrive from Tabriz and assume
the throne.
Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 201
From the shrine they issued their demands: removal of the governor who
had ordered the beatings, enforcement of shari‘a law, dismissal of Naus, and
the establishment of a representative assembly or adalatkhaneh (House of
Justice). Initially the government was defiant. But the bazaar stayed closed,
and after a month the shah dismissed the governor and accepted the protes-
tors’ demands.
But there was no attempt to convene the House of Justice in the follow-
ing months. Further street protests occurred in the summer of 1906, after
the government had tried to take action against some radical preachers, and
one of them—a seyyed, someone believed to be descended from the Prophet
Mohammad—was shot dead by the police. This killing created a huge up-
roar. Ayatollahs Behbehani and Tabataba’i, accompanied by two thousand
ulema and their students, left Tehran for Qom (then as now the main center
for theological study in the country), and a larger group of merchants, mul-
lahs, and others took sanctuary at the grounds of the summer residence of
the British legation at Golhak, then north of Tehran. The British chargé d’af-
faires respected the Persian tradition of sanctuary, or bast, and the numbers
there eventually reached fourteen thousand. Their accommodation and
other needs were organized by the bazaar merchants’ guilds. This meant
that both the ulema and the bazaar were on strike, which effectively brought
the capital to a standstill. Meanwhile, the Golhak compound became a
hotbed of political discussion and speculation, with liberal and nationalist
intellectuals joining in and addressing the assembled crowds. Many of these
began to speak of the need to limit the powers of the shah by establishing a
constitution (mashruteh), and the demand for a House of Justice became
more specific, shifting to a call for a properly representative national assem-
bly. Coordinated by the ulema, similar groups from the provinces sent many
telegrams to the shah in support of these demands.
Mashruteh
On August 5, 1906, nearly a month after the first protestors took refuge in
Golhak—and menaced by a potential mutiny among the Cossack Brigade,
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 203
whom the shah had been unable to pay—Mozaffar od-Din Shah gave in
and signed an order for the convening of a national assembly, or Majles. It
convened for the first time in October 1906 and rapidly set about drafting a
constitution, the central structure of which took the form of what were
called the Fundamental Laws. They were ratified by Mozaffar od-Din Shah
on December 30, and he died only five days later. The creation of a constitu-
tion was a major event, not just in Iranian history but also in regional and
world history. In the 1870s in Turkey, a movement often called the Young
Ottomans had established a kind of national assembly in an attempt to re-
cast the Ottoman Empire as a constitutional monarchy, but the experiment
had only lasted for a couple of years. The constitutional movement in Iran
had a more enduring effect, and even though its revolution is often described
as a failure, the Majles survived, and the movement’s achievements influ-
enced events throughout the rest of the twentieth century. And the initial
success of the revolution was achieved by peaceful, dignified protest—almost
wholly without bloodshed.
The Majles was elected on the basis of partial suffrage, on a two-stage sys-
tem, and represented primarily the middle and upper classes that had
headed the protests in the first place. The electors were landowners (only
above a middling size), ulema and theological students, and merchants and
bazaar-guild members with businesses of average size or above. In each re-
gion, these electors chose delegates to regional assemblies, and those dele-
gates nominated the 156 Majles members (except in Tehran where they
were elected directly). Numerically, the Majles was dominated by the bazaar
merchants and guild elders, and it divided roughly into liberal, moderate,
and royalist groupings—of which the moderates were the most numerous
by a large margin. Ayatollahs Behbehani and Tabataba’i supported the mod-
erates but were not themselves Majles members. Outside the Majles, both in
the capital and in the regional centers, the elections stimulated the creation
of further political societies (anjoman), some of which grew powerful and in-
fluenced the deliberations of the Majles itself. Some of these societies repre-
sented occupations, others regions like Azerbaijan, and still others ethnic or
religious groups like the Jews and Armenians. There were political societies
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for women for the first time. A great upsurge in political activity and debate
took place across the country, resulting in an expansion of the number of
newspapers—from just six before the revolution to more than one hun-
dred.19 This upsurge was disturbing to the more tradition minded, especially
the more conservative members of the ulema.
The Majles expected to govern, and to govern on new principles. The con-
stitution (which remained formally in force until 1979, and was based on the
Belgian constitution) stated explicitly that the shah’s sovereignty derived
from the people, as a power given to him in trust, not as a right bestowed di-
rectly by God. The power of the ulema, and their frame of thought, was also
manifest in the constitution. Shi‘ism was declared to be the state religion,
shari‘a law was recognized, clerical courts were given a significant role, and
there was to be a five-man committee of senior ulema to scrutinize legislation
passed by the Majles, to confirm its spiritual legitimacy (that is, until the
reappearance of the Hidden Emam, whose proper responsibility this was).
But the civil rights of non-Shi‘a minorities were also protected, reflecting the
involvement of many Jews, Babis, Armenians, and others in the constitu-
tional project. Jews and Armenians had their own protected seats for their
representatives in the Majles (though the first Jewish representative with-
drew after encountering anti-Semitism from other members of the Majles,
and the Jews thereafter chose Behbehani to represent them—another impor-
tant example of a mojtahed sympathetic to the Jewish minority20).
All revolutions are about movement and change—that is obvious. They
are also about leadership. The Constitutional Revolution marked the ef-
fective end of the Qajar era of government, and promised to usher in a
period of government under more regular, legitimate, modern principles.
Instead, for a variety of reasons, many of which had nothing to do with the
revolution itself, it inaugurated a period of conflict and uncertainty. It was
still a major change, a watershed. But in addition to that kind of change,
most revolutions bring their own dynamic of change within the human
groupings and systems of values involved in the revolution. The players in
the revolution find their expectations, assumptions, and illusions chal-
lenged and, in some cases, subverted or overturned by the progress of the
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 205
revolution itself. As with other revolutions, notably the French, the Con-
stitutional Revolution in Iran provided a playground for the law of unin-
tended consequences.
The prime revolutionary classes were the ulema and the bazaari mer-
chants, whose motivations, if not their mode of expressing them, were at
root conservative. They wanted the removal of foreign interference and a
restoration of traditional patterns of commerce and religious authority. In
the earliest phase of the revolution, the ulema were in charge. It was their au-
thority that gave the protests authority, and it was their hierarchy and their
system of relationships that organized and coordinated the protest. But once
the protesters were installed in the British legation, it was a question of
“where next,” and the ulema had no clear answer. The simple removal of
ministers and objectionable Qajar initiatives was plainly not enough; the
shah’s good faith could not be relied upon, and previous protests had failed
to secure future good behavior. The call for a constitution was not just for a
vague construct, the pet project of Westernizers; it was manifest that the
country needed to commit itself to a permanent change of direction more
definitive than anything tried before. The constitution really was an idea
whose time had arrived—even the leaders of the ulema initially embraced it,
despite its being clearly a Western-inspired idea. But their acceptance,
whether or not they realized it straightaway, effectively handed over the ini-
tiative, and therefore the leadership, to the owners of the constitutional idea:
the liberals and nationalists whose models were secular and Western. Many
of these men were members of the state bureaucracy and were spiritual heirs
of Amir Kabir. They were eager for reform of the state along Western lines,
especially the state’s finances, but also its education and justice systems. One
could think of them as a new intelligentsia, suddenly grown into importance
to rival the traditional intelligentsia, the ulema. They were to be found dis-
proportionally among the Majles delegates from Azerbaijan and Tabriz,
and one of their most prominent leaders, Seyyed Hasan Taqizadeh, was
from that region. Their agenda extended beyond just a constitution. It soon
became increasingly clear to many ulema that the revolution was taking a
direction they had neither anticipated nor wanted.
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Mozaffar od-Din Shah’s successor was his son Mohammad Ali Shah,
whose instincts were more autocratic than those of his father. Although he
took an oath of loyalty to the constitution, he was resolved from the start to
overturn it and restore the previous form of untrammeled monarchy.
Through 1907 and the first half of 1908 the Majles passed measures for the
reform of taxation and finance, as well as education and judicial matters.
The latter were particularly disturbing to the ulema, because they saw their
traditional role encroached upon.
The figure of Shaykh Fazlollah Nuri symbolized the change of mind
among many of the ulema and their followers at this time. Nuri had been a
prominent Tehrani mojtahed in 1905, supporting the protests of
1905–1906. But by 1907 he was arguing that the Majles and its plans were
leading away from the initial aims of the protesters—that it was unaccept-
able that sacred law should be tampered with. It was also unacceptable
that other religious groups be treated equally with Muslims before the law,
and that the constitutionalists were importing “the customs and practices
of the abode of unbelief ” (i.e., the West). At one point Nuri led a group of
supporters into bast at the shrine of Shah Abd ol-Azim. From there his at-
tacks on the constitutionalists grew stronger, and he expressed open sup-
port for the monarchy against the Majles, which he denounced as
illegitimate. He also railed against Jews, Bahais, and Zoroastrians, exag-
gerating their part in the constitutionalist movement. A group of clerics
sent telegrams supporting him from the theological center in Najaf.21
Other mojtaheds, like Tabataba’i, were more willing to accept Western
ideas into the framework of political structures that were to govern human
affairs in the absence of the Hidden Emam. But it is probably also fair to
say that Nuri understood better than many of the ulema the direction that
constitutionalism was leading, and from his perspective, the dangers of it.
The general ferment of ideas precipitated by the revolution and the years
of dissent before it had affected the ulema too. The ulema had never been
a united bloc of opinion (no more than any group of intellectuals ever is).
Eventually, another leading cleric, Khorasani, attacked Nuri from Najaf,
declaring him to be a non-Muslim.
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 207
Just as the fighting around Troy in the Iliad is paralleled by the disputes of
the gods on Mount Olympus, so the struggle between radicals and conserva-
tives in Tehran was paralleled by a struggle between the mojtaheds in Najaf.
Before 1906, the most eminent of these—the marja, or religious role model,
for many Shi‘a Muslims—was Mohammad Kazem Khorasani, who had
supported the constitution and the line taken by Tabataba’i when the revo-
lution came. But the ferment caused among the ulema by the revolution was
such that as Nuri came to prominence in Tehran, Khorasani lost ground to
a more conservative rival, Seyyed Mohammad Kazem Yazdi. This shift took
concrete form at prayer: followers sat behind their chosen marja, and one ac-
count says that when the struggle was at its height only thirty or so still
prayed behind Khorasani, while several thousand took their place behind
Yazdi. Later on there was rioting in Najaf between the supporters of the dif-
ferent factions.22
In June 1908 the shah, deciding that feeling had moved far enough in his
direction for him to act, launched the Cossack Brigade in an attack against
the Majles. The troops fired shells at the building until the delegates gave in,
and the assembly was closed. Many leading members were arrested and exe-
cuted, while others, like Taqizadeh, escaped overseas. The shah’s coup was
successful in Tehran, but not in all the provinces. In Tabriz, delegates from
the constitutionalist regional assembly and their supporters (notably the
charismatic ex-brigand Sattar Khan) successfully held the city against the
royal governor and his forces.
In 1907, newly allied to each other and to France, and concerned at Ger-
many’s burgeoning overseas presence, Britain and Russia had finally com-
pounded their mutual suspicions and reached a treaty over their interests in
Persia. The treaty showed no respect for the new conditions of popular sov-
ereignty in the country, showing that the apparent British protection of the
revolutionaries in their legation in 1906 had had little real significance. This
new treaty divided Persia into three zones: a zone of Russian influence in
the north, including Tabriz, Tehran, Mashhad, and Isfahan—most of the
major cities; a British zone in the southeast, adjacent to the border with
British India; and a neutral zone in the middle.
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One consequence of the treaty was that the Russians, intolerant as ever of
any form of popular movement, felt obliged to send in troops to restore Qa-
jar rule in Tabriz after the shah’s coup of June 1908. But some of the revolu-
tionaries were able to escape to Gilan and continue their resistance with
other locals there. In July 1909 they made a move on Tehran, coordinated
with a move from the south, where revolutionaries in Isfahan had allied
themselves with the Bakhtiari tribe and successfully taken over that city.
Mohammad Ali Shah fled to the Russian legation, was deposed, and went
into exile in Russia. He was replaced by his young son, Ahmad, though Ah-
mad was not crowned until July 1914.
The constitutionalists were back in control once more, but the revolution
had entered a new, more dangerous phase. A new Majles came in (on a new
electoral law, which yielded a more conservative assembly), but the divisions
between the radicals and the conservatives had deepened. The violence that
had reinstated the revolution also had its effect—many of the armed groups
that had retaken the capital stayed on there. Several prominent Bakhtiaris
took office in the government. The ulema were divided and many sided with
the royalists, effectively rejecting the whole project of constitutionalism. But
within a few days the leader of the conservative ulema, Nuri, was arrested,
tried, and hanged for his alleged connections with the coup of June 1908.
There were a series of assassinations carried out by both wings of political
opinion—Behbehani was killed, and later Sattar Khan. The radicals—the
democratic party in the Majles—found themselves denounced by bazaar
crowds as heretics and traitors, and some of them, including Taqizadeh,
were forced into exile. Rumors ran around that there was a Babi conspiracy
behind the democrats, and there were attacks on the Jews—in Kermanshah
in 1909, and Shiraz in 1910, instigated as usual by preachers and marginal
mullahs. A later, serious riot against the Jews in Tehran in 1922 was put
down by Reza Khan.23 There was disorder in many provinces. It became im-
possible to collect taxation, tribal leaders took over in some areas, and brig-
ands became commonplace. To try to address this, and to redress the
influence of the Russian-officered Cossack Brigade, the Majles set up a gen-
darmerie trained by Swedish officers.
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 209
Prince Charming
Pushing forward despite these storms, the government appointed a young
American, Morgan Schuster, as financial adviser. Schuster presented clear-
sighted, wide-ranging proposals that addressed law and order and the gov-
ernment’s control of the provinces, as well as more narrowly financial
matters, and he began to put them into effect. Fulfilling Iranian (or at least
some Iranian) aspirations in ways that British realpolitik had disappointed
them, the United States in this phase looked like the partner Iran had long
hoped to find in the West—antifeudal, anticolonial, modern, but not impe-
rialist—a truly benevolent foreign power that would, for once, treat Iran
with respect, as an agent in her own right, not as an instrument. People have
suggested that there are only a limited number of stories in literature and
folklore—that all the great variety ever told can be reduced to just a handful
of archetypal plots. If that is so, and if we think of the British and the Rus-
sians in the nineteenth century as the ugly sisters, then at this time Morgan
Schuster and his United States looked like Prince Charming. But the story
was not to have a happy ending.
The Russians objected to Schuster’s appointment of a British officer to
head up a new gendarmerie, for tax collection, on the basis that it should not
have been made within their sphere of influence without their consent, and
the British acquiesced with their uglier sister. Schuster assessed, probably
correctly, that the deeper Russian motive was to keep the Persian govern-
ment’s affairs in a state of financial bankruptcy, and thus in a position of rel-
ative weakness (as supplicant for Russian loans), the better to manipulate
them. Any determined effort to put the government of Persia on a sound fi-
nancial footing, as Schuster’s reforms threatened to do, was a threat to Rus-
sian interests. The Russians presented an ultimatum: Schuster had to go. A
group of women surged into the Majles to demand that the ultimatum be
rejected, and the Majles agreed with them, insisting that the American
should stay. But the Russians sent troops to Tehran and as they drew near,
the Bakhtiaris and conservatives in the cabinet enacted what has been called
a coup, and dismissed both Schuster and the Majles in December 1911.24
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Schuster later wrote a book about his time in Iran called The Strangling of
Persia, in which, despite what today reads sometimes with a rather prosy,
evangelical style, he expressed his admiration for the moral courage and de-
termination of the people he worked with in the period of the Constitu-
tional Revolution. The book explains much about the revolution, and about
Persia at the time. But it also illuminates Schuster’s attitudes about the
country and the reasons he and, by extension, the United States were so
highly regarded by Iranians. He wrote of the Majles that it
. . . more truly represented the best aspirations of the Persians than any other
body that had ever existed in that country. It was as representative as it could
be under the difficult circumstances which surround the institution of the
Constitutional Government. It was loyally supported by the great mass of the
Persians, and that alone was sufficient justification for its existence. The Rus-
sian and British Governments, however, were constantly instructing their
Ministers at Teheran to obtain this concession or to block that one, failing ut-
terly to recognise that the days had passed in which the affairs, lives and inter-
ests of twelve millions of people were entirely in the hands of an easily
intimidated and willingly bribed despot.25
It would be incorrect to put all the blame for the outcome of the Consti-
tutional Revolution onto the foreigners. The revolution had brought for-
ward violence and rancor between the groups represented in the Majles, and
the divisions contributed to the events of December 1911. One could specu-
late, not least on the basis of the use of terror by other revolutionaries in
other revolutions, that if the revolution had not been cut off at that point,
the violence might well have gotten a great deal worse, possibly with very
damaging long-term effects. But that is to speculate too far. We do not know
how it would have turned out. Revolutions may have family resemblances,
but they have no timetable and no blueprint, and the Constitutional Revo-
lution arose out of distinctive and unique political and social circumstances.
There were, on the other hand, many positive elements in the situation as it
was before December 1911 above all that at last, as Schuster pointed out,
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 211
the country had a truly popular government, and that it was addressing as a
priority the fundamental problem of the fiscal structures. Revolutionaries
and people showed a strong solidarity against external meddling, a powerful
enthusiasm for constitutional government, and for their elected Majles. This
enthusiasm had been strong enough to overturn one coup already, and was
strong enough to sustain the principles of constitutionalism later, too, no-
tably in 1919–1920. It gives the lie to those who condescendingly suggest
that Iran, or Middle Eastern countries in general, are somehow culturally
unsuited to constitutional, representative, or (later) democratic government.
When those forms of government were offered, Iranians grabbed them with
both hands, as other peoples invariably have in other times and places.
Britain had huge domestic reserves of coal, oil had to be sought elsewhere.
Under the terms of the D’Arcy concession, large quantities of oil had been
discovered—the first oil to be found in the Middle East—in 1908 near Ah-
waz in Khuzestan, in southwest Iran.
Persia had for decades been of importance to Britain for the sake of the
northwest frontier of India, perhaps of declining importance, especially after
the Triple Entente. But now the oil reserves of Khuzestan became vital for
the security of the whole British Empire. Britain’s sphere of influence ac-
cording to the agreement with Russia was quickly extended westward to in-
clude the rest of the Persian Gulf coast and the oil fields. The Anglo-Persian
Oil Company was formed to exploit the oil, and in 1914 the British govern-
ment bought up a majority share in it.
Partly because of the oil, but also because Britain’s rivals fell away one by
one over the following years, Britain gradually became the dominant exter-
nal power in Iran in the decade that followed 1911. It was a period of deep-
ening chaos, poverty, and suffering. The Russians fired on revolutionaries in
several of the cities in their northern zone in the aftermath of the coup of
December 1911, notably in Mashhad. There protesters took sanctuary in
the shrine of the Emam Reza, only for the Russian artillery to shell the
shrine itself—an act of sacrilege and humiliation that was deeply felt
throughout the country. The British Embassy reported in 1914 that the cen-
tral government had little influence on events outside Tehran.26 The British
and the Russians exercised a degree of control in their respective zones, but
their grip was far from absolute. This was shown by the success of the Jangali
movement in Gilan (Jangal means forest, an allusion to the dense forests of
the Caspian coast) under the charismatic leader Kuchek Khan, which con-
tinued to sustain some of the spirit of independence that had inspired the
revolution.
The revolution is usually said to have ended in 1911, but this date is
rather artificial. The constitution established by the revolution was not over-
turned, and a new Majles convened in December 1914. The spirit of the rev-
olution and the ideals and expectations of the constitutionalists were not
crushed. They resurfaced again and again in the events that followed. The
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 213
British slowly regained the upper hand, and the situation in Iran, as in the
wider war, turned against the Germans and the Ottomans. This was de-
spite the Russians and their troops being removed from the equation after
the October revolution of 1917. By the time of the armistice in November
1918, Wassmuss was captured near Isfahan, and the British were resurgent
in Persia.
At the end of the war, the country was in a terrible state. There had been
a severe famine in the years 1917 and 1918, partly as a result of the disloca-
tion of trade and agricultural production caused by the war. The effect of
the Russian Revolution on trade was devastating. Before 1914, sixty-five
percent of foreign trade had been with Russia, but this fell to five percent by
the end of the First World War. The famine was followed by a serious visi-
tation of the global influenza epidemic in 1918–1919, and typhus killed
many as well. Brigands were common. Although there were British troops in
several parts of the country, many tribal groups had taken up arms, and the
Jangalis were still in control of most of Gilan. Having begun as pro-consti-
tutionalist, the Jangalis came under Russian Bolshevik influence. In the
summer of 1918, with the help of some Bolsheviks, they had forced a British
force under General Lionel Dunsterville to retreat from a confrontation in
Gilan. By this time Dunsterville had learned rather more about the Jangalis
than he had known in January 1918, before he took up his duties in Persia,
when he wrote in his diary,
I get a wire to say that Enzeli, my destination on the Caspian Sea, has been
seized by some horrid fellows called Jangalis (a very suggestive name) who are
intensely anti-British and are in the pay of [the] Germans.27
But the political dislocation (if not the economic distress) was less grave
than it might appear. The devolved rule of local tribal leaders had, after all,
been pretty much the normal state of affairs under the Qajars. Some ac-
counts of the period suggest that there was a disillusionment with constitu-
tionalism and a yearning for strong government. But it is not fully clear that
either was a general mood, nor that the two necessarily went together.28
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 215
In the aftermath of the First World War, Britain was juggling a series of
complex and weighty problems over the territory of the Middle East, the
resolution of which would be fateful for the future in several different con-
texts. The size and shape of postwar Turkey had to be resolved, as well as the
nature and borders of the post-Ottoman states in Palestine, Syria, and Iraq.
The British were concerned also to contain, or if possible overturn, the new
communist regime in Russia. All of this came at a time of greatly reduced fi-
nancial means, as a result of the crippling debt incurred during the war, and
with the United States under Woodrow Wilson preaching a new philoso-
phy of international relations—essentially a democratic principle of self-
determination—that appeared to undermine the very foundation of British
imperialism. Iranian nationalists welcomed Wilson’s principles, and again
were encouraged to think of the United States as Iran’s great hope among
the great powers. But like other Middle Eastern states, notably Egypt, repre-
sentatives of the Iranian government were refused access to the peace negoti-
ations at Versailles.
Anglo-Persian Non-Agreement
and Reza Khan
So Britain, having won the war and having achieved supremacy in Persia,
was overstretched—too many calls on too scarce means, and with impor-
tant distractions elsewhere. The British foreign secretary at the time, Lord
Curzon, knew Persia well and had written a thoughtful, magisterial book,
Persia and the Persian Question, on the basis of his travels in 1889–1890. But
although that book was sympathetic to the people of Iran in many respects,
Curzon seems to have overlooked some of its guiding principles, and to
have failed to absorb the significance of the constitutionalist period.29 In
1919 he proposed—or, rather, he attempted to force through—an Anglo-
Persian Agreement that would have reduced Persia to the status of a pro-
tectorate (parallel with the mandate arrangements being set up at the same
time for Iraq and Palestine), with the military and fiscal responsibilities of
government given over to the British. The agreement was rather like earlier
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Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 217
The British troops (now based in Qazvin) were unpopular with the Per-
sians and, after their retreat from Gilan, were somewhat discredited—a
dangerous combination not calculated to overawe nationalist dislike. Iron-
side was an intelligent, tough, decisive career soldier and had been given the
responsibility of helping reequip the Cossack Brigade, now grown to divi-
sion strength, which had also recently withdrawn from the Caspian coast to
a position near Qazvin. He decided almost as he took up his appointment to
exceed his orders. With the reluctant agreement of the shah, he dismissed
the remaining Russian officers of the Cossack corps, judging that although
the Persian troops were good, sound soldiers, the Russian officers were de-
moralized, anti-British, and susceptible to Bolshevik infiltration. When
Curzon found out, he did not approve, but by then it was too late. Ironside
reassured the Persian Cossacks that he had no intention of imposing British
officers on them, and Persian officers were appointed. Acting through his
second-in-command, Lieutenant Colonel Smyth, Ironside then selected a
former sergeant, Reza Khan, as the most effective soldier, and arranged mat-
ters so that Reza Khan became the de facto commander. Ironside was wor-
ried that, as time went on, the position of the British would deteriorate. The
Bolsheviks might move on Tehran, and if that happened, the Persian Cos-
sacks might side with them. He thought that perhaps it would be better to
let the Cossacks take over while the British were still in a strong position.
The British troops could then make a peaceful withdrawal. Shortly after-
ward, in January 1921, Ironside wrote in his diary,
Qajar Monarchy, the Revolution of 1905–1911, and the Pahlavi Dynasty 219
The fourth Majles convened in 1921, and Reza Khan was able to keep
them broadly supportive of his reform programs by allying with conservative
elements. In 1923 he made himself prime minister, and the shah went on
what was to prove an extended holiday in Europe. At the end of the year, a
fifth Majles convened, later approving a controversial initiative to introduce
conscription, after the ulema had been conciliated with an exemption for re-
ligious students. In 1924, Reza Khan (inspired by the example of Atatürk’s
reforms in Turkey) encouraged a movement to create a republic, and ac-
quired four Rolls-Royce armored cars to help him keep order in Tehran. But
he misjudged the mood of the country and had to stage a resignation for a
time, abandoning the republican project. In 1925, Reza Khan consolidated
his support by visiting Najaf on pilgrimage, temporarily concealing his
Westernizing intentions. He also took the name Pahlavi, which resonated
with nationalists as the name of the Middle Persian language of pre-Islamic
times. The Majles deposed Ahmad Shah and the Qajar dynasty in October,
after Ahmad Shah had let it be known that he intended to return to the
country. Shortly before the end of the year, a constituent assembly agreed to
a changeover from the Qajar to the Pahlavi dynasty, and Reza was crowned
shah early in 1926. Ahmad Shah never did return and died in Paris in 1930.
Reza Khan’s rise to power was facilitated in 1921 by local British com-
manders for their own reasons, but it is incorrect to see his success as a suc-
cess for British foreign policy, or him as a British stooge. On the contrary,
Ironside supported an action by Reza Khan precisely because he perceived
current British policy to have failed. Reza Khan took advantage of Ironside’s
willingness to give him his chance, but made no commitment to future pro-
British alignment, and there is no indication that Ironside expected or asked
for any such guarantees. The coup of 1921 and its aftermath came about as a
result of a temporary coincidence of interests.
As for the people of Iran, it is not entirely correct to see Reza Khan’s suc-
cess as the outcome of the desire of the people for a strong man on a white
horse to overcome political chaos, after a failed democratic experiment. The
period 1921–1926 has been compared with the period of regency leading up
to Nader Shah’s coronation in 1736, in which he too prepared the way with
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 220
military successes; but the comparison, though attractive, is not entirely ap-
posite. The Constitutional Revolution had aimed, among other things, at
modernization, centralization, strong government, and an end to foreign
meddling in the country. Reza Khan became shah in 1925–1926 with the
connivance of the Majles, because they judged he would fulfill those pur-
poses, where earlier attempts by others had failed. He largely justified their
confidence in him. But his reforming success was achieved at the expense of
liberal, representative government. He was to an extent the nemesis of the
Constitutional Revolution, but he was also the child of it.32
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7
The Pahlavis and the
Revolution of 1979
Reza Khan was about forty-two when he became Sardar-e Sepah after the
coup in 1921. Although there was much supposition and mythmaking after
he became shah, little is known for sure of his origins beyond that he was
born in the village of Alasht in the thickly wooded Savad Kuh region of
Mazanderan. Some have suggested that his family had Turkic origins, oth-
ers Pashtun. It seems his father died when he was still an infant, and his
mother brought him to Tehran, where he grew up in her brother’s house-
hold. Through the uncle’s connections with the Cossack Brigade, the young
Reza was able to enlist with them when he was fifteen. He grew up to be
tall and tough, with a grim expression and a heavy jaw. Some of the better-
educated technocrats that he appointed to fulfill his modernization pro-
gram found his manner and speech embarrassingly crude, and some sneered
at his lack of culture. But none would have done so to his face, and most
found his presence daunting.1
221
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 222
Man of Action
Reza Khan’s attitudes and motivations emerge above all from his actions.
He came to power not just to be shah or to preside, as the Qajars had
done—he disdained their ineffectual style of rule. The Pahlavi monarchy
was an odd kind of monarchy, with no real roots in tradition. It was estab-
lished only after Reza Khan had failed to set up a republic. To him, being
shah was a means to an end, not an end in itself. And his underlying pur-
pose was to control the country, to make the country strong, to develop it so
that it could be truly independent, to modernize it so that it could deal with
the great powers on an equal basis, to have a strong army to resist foreign in-
terventions, and to impose order internally so that, as in other modern
countries, the state enjoyed sole control. These aims, and the autocratic
methods used to realize them, reflected his military background and the
Russian influence he had lived with in the Cossack Brigade. Initially he had
to compromise with the Majles, but time would show that he was no friend
to free political expression. In addition, he had a model, Kemal Atatürk, who
after a successful military career had established himself as the supreme au-
thority in Turkey on secular, nationalist principles, backed by a strong army.
With great determination, Atatürk had set about a plan for state-directed
industrialization and economic development. Much has been made of Reza
Shah’s connections with fascism, but this was the age of dictators, whether
fascist, communist, or otherwise. Reza Shah had little need to look further
afield than Turkey—not in the 1920s, at least.
In 1926 Iran was still a country of peasant villages, tribes, and small towns
(in that order), with little industry and an overall population of only twelve
million people, the overwhelming majority of whom were illiterate. Patterns
of trade and the economic life in the bazaars had adapted to the wider world
economy; in Tehran and other major cities, there were some of the superficial
trappings of modernity—streetlights, motor vehicles, and paving. But in the
great expanses beyond, little had changed since the time of Nader Shah.
Among the transformations imposed by Reza Shah, the first and most
central was the expansion of the army. The army was the shah’s highest prior-
ity and greatest interest, and most of the other developments he imposed can
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 223
be explained in terms of the support they gave to the goal of making the army
strong, efficient, and modern. The plan for an army of five divisions, with ten
thousand men per division, was announced in January 1922, but problems
with conscription, finance, and equipment persisted, and the force was still
twenty percent understrength in 1926. Despite approval of the conscription
law in June 1925, there was great opposition to its implementation, especially
among tribal groups. The measure was not properly applied until 1930, and
not imposed properly on the tribes until the mid-1930s or later. But by the
late 1930s the army stood at more than one hundred thousand men, with re-
serves theoretically taking potential strength up to four hundred thousand.2
Despite these figures, the efficiency of the forces (outside Tehran, where
the standard of the central division was rather higher) was not impressive.
For local actions against the tribes, provincial commanders still recruited
tribal contingents on an ad hoc basis, as had been done for centuries. Morale
of the ordinary conscripts was low. They were not well paid—most of the
large sums spent on the army went to buy equipment, including tanks (from
the Skoda works in Czechoslovakia), artillery (from Sweden), and aircraft
(an air force of 154 airplanes by 1936), as well as rifles and other material.
Forty percent of government expenditure went to the army, even in the
1920s. Later it received almost all of the growing income from oil, though
the overall proportion of state revenue spent on defense fell as the size of the
total budget rose.3 From 1922 to 1927, state finances were organized by an-
other American, Arthur Millspaugh (after negotiations in which the Irani-
ans had tried to get Schuster to return). But although their relationship was
initially good, and the American had public approval to a degree no Briton
or other foreigner could have expected, the shah eventually grew resentful at
the restrictions Millspaugh placed on his military spending. They argued,
and Reza Pahlavi declared: “There can’t be two shahs in this country.”4
Millspaugh’s position became impossible, and he resigned in 1927.
A second major effort by the new regime was in the improvement of
transport infrastructure. In 1927 there were an estimated thirty-one hun-
dred miles of roads fit for motor transport, nearly a third of which had been
built by foreign troops during the First World War; by 1938 there were
some fifteen thousand miles of roads. Whereas in 1925 Iran had only about
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one hundred fifty miles of railways, by 1938 there were a little more than one
thousand. But by that time, the less expensive highway transport was tend-
ing to supplant rail.
Reza Shah invested in industry a similar amount to that invested in rail-
ways. This was especially true of industries aimed at substituting domestic
production for imports—textiles, tobacco, sugar, and other food and drink
products. Over half of the investment came from private capital.5 It was not
a huge transformation by comparison with what was being achieved in
Turkey—let alone Stalin’s Russia. But it was impressive, nonetheless, espe-
cially given the low base point from which Reza Shah had started, and the
failures of the past.
More impressive, and in the long run probably more important, was the
expansion of education. Total school attendance went from 55,131 in 1922
to 457,236 in 1938. In 1924 there were 3,300 pupils in secondary schools; by
1940 the number had risen to 28,200. The school system was far from uni-
versal, and it neglected almost all the rural population (though there was a
small but successful initiative for schools in tribal areas). The system has
been criticized for being overly narrow and mechanical, teaching through
rote learning and lacking in intellectual stimulation. But this reflected its
main purpose: to educate efficient and unimaginative army officers and bu-
reaucrats. Reza Shah did not want to educate a new generation of free
thinkers who would oppose his rule and encourage others to do so. But as
elsewhere, education proved a slippery thing, and many educated in this way
nonetheless went on to dispute Reza Shah’s supremacy in just the way he
had sought to avoid. Through the 1930s, a small but significant elite were
sent on government-funded scholarships to study at universities abroad (es-
pecially in France), and in 1935 the foundation was laid for a university in
Tehran. In 1940 there were 411 graduates, and in 1941 the university
awarded its first doctorates.6
From the point at which he became shah, Reza inexorably strengthened
his own position and the autocratic nature of his regime. Although he came
to power with the agreement of the Majles, opponents like Mohammad
Mossadeq (a future prime minister) and Seyyed Hasan Modarres (the lead-
ing representative of the ulema in the Majles) had predicted that he would
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 225
erode the liberal elements of the constitution. Mossadeq held firm to his po-
sition and was later imprisoned. But after Reza Shah’s coronation, Modarres
and others attempted to make a compromise with him that would leave some
space for the Majles, and for constitutional government. Constitutionalists
took office as ministers, including, later, Hasan Taqizadeh, who had been
prominent in 1906–1911. But few of them had happy careers in office. A se-
ries of ministers were sacked, imprisoned, or banished, sometimes for no
clear reason other than the shah’s suspicions—or his need to assert his per-
sonal authority. Modarres himself did not accept office, but his compromise
failed, he was arrested in 1928, sent in custody to Khorasan, and was mur-
dered there at prayer in 1938. Loyal ministers such as Teymurtash, Firuz, and
Davar were arrested and murdered in prison or induced to commit suicide.
Taqizadeh was fortunate to be sent overseas in semi-banishment instead.
Writers and poets also suffered, as censorship was tightened and freedom
of expression curtailed, strangling the burst of literary output that had
emerged in the early decades of the century.
Sadeq Hedayat was one of the most distinguished writers of the twenti-
eth century in Iran. Born in 1903 in Tehran, he studied in France in the
1920s. As a young man, he became an enthusiast for a romantic Iranian na-
tionalism that laid much of the blame for Iran’s problems on the Arab con-
quest of the seventh century. His short stories and novellas—Talab-e
Amorzesh (Seeking Absolution), Sag-e Velgard (Stray Dog), and his best-known,
Buf-e Kur (The Blind Owl)—combined the every day, the fantastic, and the
satirical. Hedayat’s work rejected religion, superstition, and Arabic influence
in Iranian life (sometimes in unpleasantly vivid terms) but in an innovative,
modernist style that through its relentlessly honest observation of everyday
life reaches the highest standards of world literature. He translated Kafka,
Chekhov, and Sartre into Persian and was also an enthusiast for the poetry
of Omar Khayyam. Hedayat committed suicide in Paris in 1951; his works
were banned in their entirety by the Ahmadinejad government in 2006.7
Another literary figure to die in 1951 was Mohammad Taqi Bahar, him-
self a poet but also the great critic of Persian poetry. Putting forward a theo-
retical structure for the literary history of Persia, Bahar identified in
particular a revival (bazgasht) in the latter part of the eighteenth century, in
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 226
which poets deliberately rejected the Safavid style in favor of a return to the
style of the tenth and eleventh centuries. In Bahar’s own lifetime another new
wave of poetic style came in, linked like the innovative prose of Hedayat to
the change in attitudes in the period of the Constitutional Revolution. The
first great exemplar of this change was Nima Yushij, who lived from 1895 to
1959. Nima wrote in a new way, breaking many of the rules of classical Per-
sian poetic form. He used new vocabulary and new images drawn from direct
observation of nature. For many years his freer style of poetry was resisted by
the more tradition minded. But later it found acceptance, becoming the
model for younger poets—notably Forugh Farrokhzad (1935–1967).8
Reza Shah visited Atatürk in Turkey in 1934, and the visit symbolized the
parallels between the two regimes. The nationalist, modernizing, secularizing,
Westernizing features shared by both were obvious. Reza Shah’s education
policy supported the founding of girls’ schools, and he banned the veil. He
wanted Iran and the Iranians to look Western and modern—men, too, had to
wear Western dress, and at one point he decreed that all should wear Western
headgear, with the result that the streets were suddenly awash with fedoras
and bowler hats.9 As in Turkey, the shah set up a language reform to remove
words not of Persian origin, and to replace them with Persian words. Then, in
order to differentiate his regime from the decadent style and national humilia-
tions of the Qajar period, in 1935 he ordered that foreign governments should
drop the name “Persia” in official communications and use instead the name
“Iran”—the ancient name that had always been used by Iranians themselves.
In 1927/1928 he ended the capitulations, according to which, since the treaty
of Turkmanchai, foreigners had enjoyed extraterritorial privilege in Iran, being
free from the jurisdiction of the Iranian authorities.
But Reza Shah did not pursue the Westernizing agenda as far as Atatürk.
For example, despite the language reform, there was no change of alphabet
to the Roman script, as was done in Turkey. And although he achieved the
removal of some of the worst abuses of foreign interference in Iran, he even-
tually had to accept the continuation of British exploitation of oil in the
south—a deal that brought a poor return (sixteen percent of profits) in pro-
portion to the real value of such an important national resource. In 1928, the
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 227
and the Allies feared that if they did not move in, then the Germans would.
But the situation was more complex than that. At the time of the Anglo-
Soviet intervention of 1941, no German armed forces were threatening Iran
directly. The German push to take Baku and the Caucasus oil fields only
came later, in the summer of 1942. The shah himself, despite having encour-
aged the Germans earlier to a certain extent, had been resisting German in-
fluence within the country.
But when Britain and the Soviet Union were thrown into alliance in 1941
by Hitler’s invasion of Russia (in June), Britain’s position in the Middle East
was looking uncertain. The crucial interests for Britain were the Suez Canal
and the Iranian oil fields. Having defeated an Italian effort to break into
Egypt from Libya in 1940, British forces in North Africa were put on the
defensive by the arrival of Rommel and the German Afrika Korps. In the
spring of 1941 they had to retreat back toward Alexandria, leaving a garrison
to be surrounded in Tobruk. At about the same time, in April, there was an
anti-British revolt in Iraq, encouraged by the Germans and assisted by Luft-
waffe aircraft. This necessitated an intervention by British troops, who com-
pleted their occupation of the country by the end of May. In June, rattled by
these developments, Britain sent British and Free French troops into
Lebanon and Syria to unseat the Nazi-aligned Vichy French governments
there.
Seen in that context, the British and Soviet takeover of Iran in August
1941 looks more like part of a rounding-out of strategic policy in the region,
at a particularly dangerous and uncertain moment for the Allies—part of
the inexorable totalizing logic of the war itself. But Iran did have major sig-
nificance in another aspect. Hitler’s successes—from Norway to Denmark
to Poland to France to Yugoslavia to Greece, in 1940 and the early part of
1941—meant that the avenues for Britain and the Soviet Union to support
each other were restricted to the hazardous Arctic route to Murmansk in
the north, or some southern alternative. And once Hitler’s Barbarossa offen-
sive had swept all before it in Byelorussia and the Ukraine, the Soviets ur-
gently needed supplies from the West to help equip the new armies to
replace the Soviet troops that had been herded off into German camps or
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 229
slave-labor factories as prisoners of war. The route from the Persian Gulf to
the Caspian, arduous and long though it was, appeared to be an answer. By
the end of the war, more than five million tons had been taken to Russia
through Iran, by both road and rail—though this was a relatively small part
of the overall effort.
Reza Shah had flirted with the Nazi regime in the 1930s, and German
diplomats had encouraged what they saw as the shah’s Aryanization of the
language. Through the 1930s more German technicians and engineers ar-
rived in Iran—the shah favored them as an alternative to the British, who
were disliked and suspected by many Iranians. But the shah was as hostile to
possible German meddling in Iran as he was to foreign meddling of any
other kind. He also had a strong dislike for any nascent political move-
ments—fascist or communist—that might oppose his government. A small
group of apparently pro-fascist students were arrested in 1937, and their
leader was later murdered in prison. In 1940 the police shot a prominent
Zoroastrian in the street because his son had made pro-Nazi broadcasts in
Germany. A group of Marxists were also arrested in 1937; most of them were
given harsh prison sentences, and later went on to form the pro-Communist
Tudeh party.13 These developments reflected the bitter polarization of poli-
tics between fascism and communism in Europe at the time. Some of these
radicals were from that small elite who had been educated at European uni-
versities at the government’s expense. An upsurge of ugly anti-Semitic jour-
nalism contributed to a period of increased anxiety for Iranian Jews in the
1930s—and may have contributed to an increase in Jewish emigration to
Palestine—but the notion of a rising tide of pro-Nazi and pro-German feel-
ing among people and government before August 1941 has sometimes been
overstated. The historian Ervand Abrahamian has suggested that the Allied
intervention may have been not so much to remove a pro-Nazi shah as to
forestall a pro-German coup against the shah, as had happened in Iraq.14
The Allied demand that Iran should expel German nationals was
nonetheless the immediate casus belli. After the demand was refused, the Al-
lied invasion of Iran in August 1941 met only token opposition from the
army on which Reza Shah had spent so much attention and money (this is
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where a comparison with Nader Shah finally breaks down), and after three
days he ordered his troops to cease further resistance. British and Soviet
forces met in central Iran and entered Tehran on September 17, 1941.
The shah abdicated in favor of his son, Mohammad Reza, and the Allies
maintained their control over the country until after the end of the war in
1945. It seems that Reza Shah’s relationship with his son had been some-
thing like that between a senior officer and a subordinate. Mohammad Reza
Pahlavi was educated in Switzerland in the 1930s, which did not bring him
any closer to his parents or to the people he was going to rule. Mohammad
Reza had a sharp mind but was socially shy and diffident—a legacy from his
education and his relationship with his harsh father.
The Allies were the immediate cause of Reza Shah’s abdication, but his
removal was welcomed by most Iranians, and some have suggested that his
unpopularity would have made it impossible for the Allies to rule with him
still on the throne—even if he had accepted that arrangement.15 Reza went
into exile in South Africa (where he died in July 1944).
In December 1941 the United States joined the Allies against Germany
and Japan, and in 1942 American troops joined the British and Russian
forces occupying Iran. At the end of 1943 Tehran hosted the first great con-
ference of the leaders of the three Allied powers. Among the arrangements
that Churchill, Stalin, and Roosevelt agreed upon for the conduct of the
war—including opening a second front in western Europe in 1944—was
the commitment to withdraw from Iran within six months of the war’s end.
Ripples from the terrible events of the Holocaust also reached the coun-
try. In 1942 a group of orphaned children—refugees from the Jewish ghet-
toes and shtetls of Poland who had escaped into Russia only to be interned in
Siberia and then sent by train southward—arrived in Iran on the Caspian
coast, after many bitter hardships. They were brought to Tehran, where they
were given help by the Iranian Jewish community and by Zionist organiza-
tions. Having recovered from the poor condition in which they arrived, 848
children eventually made their way to Palestine.16
At the same time, a descendant of the Qajar royal family—Abdol-Hosein
Sardari Qajar, who has been called the Iranian Schindler—was looking after
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 231
the Iranian Embassy building in Paris after the embassy’s main functions
had moved to Vichy. Sardari was left a supply of blank passports, and when
Jews in Paris began to be rounded up by the Nazis in 1942, he began issuing
them to Iranian Jews, many of whom had lived in Paris for some years. He
also secured an assurance from the German authorities in Paris that Iranian
citizens would not be detained or harmed. But as the measures against Jews
in Paris intensified, French Jews with no Iranian connections began to come
to him too, desperate for help. Becoming aware of the enormity of the crime
being perpetrated by the Nazis, Sardari gave his passports —more than five
hundred of them—to those Jews as well. After the war, Sardari’s govern-
ment charged him with misconduct over these passports, but he was given a
personal pardon by Mohammad Reza Shah. When asked later about what
he had done for the Jews in Paris, Sardari apparently said it had been his
duty to help Iranian citizens. When asked about the Jews who had not been
Iranians, he said, “That was my duty as a human being.”17 Sardari died in
1981 and, in 2004, was posthumously given an award by the Simon Wiesen-
thal Center.
While the war continued, Allied troops maintained their control in Iran,
and the powers of the Pahlavi government were severely limited. But Moham-
mad Reza Shah had confirmed at his coronation that he would rule as a con-
stitutional monarch, and in 1944 elections were held for the first genuinely
representative Majles since the 1920s. Many familiar figures from the consti-
tutionalist period reappeared—notably Seyyed Zia Tabataba’i and Moham-
mad Mossadeq, as well as some of the same nationalist landowners and
officials who had been active in politics before Reza Khan became shah.
They had just grown older.
The humiliation of the invasion, the presence of the Allies, the food short-
ages, the economic disruption caused by the war, the weakness of the govern-
ment—all of it helped to stimulate another upsurge in political activity,
especially nationalistic feeling. One focus of this was again the unequal distri-
bution of the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company’s (AIOC) profits (the company
had changed its name from Anglo-Persian in recognition of the Shah’s re-
quest that the country be known as Iran). The Iranian-based industry was
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 232
the biggest and best developed in the Middle East at the time. But through
taxation of the AIOC in the United Kingdom, the British government gar-
nered more profit from the Iranian oil industry than the Iranian government
did (nearly double over the period 1932–195018). The Allied occupation was
unpopular, but the British and Russians were more unpopular than the
Americans. A sign of this was that another figure from the past, Arthur
Millspaugh, returned in November 1942 to his old job of running Iranian
state finances. Although Millspaugh set to work with his usual diligence, he
showed a lack of sensitivity to the political and social conditions of Iran at the
time. His attempts to end food subsidies and to privatize state institutions
eventually made him unpopular, and led to his resignation two years later.
The shah tried to appeal to pro-American feeling, and to the United
States for support. He made a speech drawing a comparison between Ira-
nian nationalism and Iran’s struggle for independence, and American na-
tionalism and America’s struggle for independence—from the British
Empire, of course. In the heightened intensity of political debate under the
Allied occupation, the young shah felt the need to appeal to popular opin-
ion. As during the constitutionalist period, new newspapers—and this time,
new political parties—proliferated. By 1943, there were forty-seven news-
papers in Tehran (there would be seven hundred by 1951).19 Of the new par-
ties, the most significant was the founding in 1941 of the pro-Communist
Tudeh, which reoriented the intelligentsia in a pro-Tudeh, Marxist-leaning
direction.20 Radio ownership was also expanding rapidly, exercising a further
integrating influence and focusing the attention even of isolated villagers on
national events and discussions.
As the war came to an end, doubts began to arise over whether or not the
Soviet troops would depart from Azerbaijan. Making use of the social dem-
ocratic tradition in the region and the strong position of the Tudeh party
there, the Russians pursued an imperialistic policy that prefigured and
helped bring on the confrontation of the Cold War. They encouraged pro-
Soviet secessionist movements in Azerbaijan—Kurdish as well as Azeri
(there was more serious enthusiasm for secession among the Kurds than
among the Azeris), with the aim of re-creating there something like the old
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In fact, Persian poetry came to be the emotional home in which the ambiguity
that was at the heart of Iranian culture lived most freely and openly. What
Persian poetry expressed was not an enigma to be solved but an enigma that
was unsolvable. In Persian poetry of any worth nothing was merely something
else; the inner space of the spirit in which Persian poetry underwent its thou-
sand transformations was ultimately a place where this ambiguous language
reached a private emotional value that had to remain private, because to de-
code it as mere allegory, to reexpress it in any form of explanatory paraphrase
would be to place it back in the public domain and, therefore, in the realm in
which it was intended to remain ambiguous.22
Mossadeq
The assassination attempt of 1949 against the Shah precipitated an ex-
tended period of crisis, demonstrations, and martial law. In 1950 the shah
appointed a new prime minister, Ali Razmara, but Razmara was not popu-
lar; he was suspected of pro-British sympathies, and his military back-
ground encouraged concern that the shah intended a return to the
militaristic, autocratic style of government his father had favored in the
1930s. Over the same period, Mohammad Mossadeq assembled a broad
coalition of Majles deputies that came to be called the National Front. It was
organized around a central demand for oil nationalization, and Mossadeq
was also widely believed to have reached an accommodation with Tudeh.
The shah’s government attempted to negotiate with the AIOC for a revision
of the terms of the oil concession, but the AIOC were slow to accept the
fifty-fifty split of profits that had become the norm in oil agreements else-
where in the world. The National Front and its demand for oil nationaliza-
tion were greatly strengthened in Majles elections in 1950, and in March
1951 Razmara was assassinated by the same extremist Islamic group that
had murdered Kasravi. It was inevitable that Mossadeq, as the most popular
politician in the country, would become prime minister.
Mossadeq was nearly seventy in 1951. He had Qajar ancestry and had
studied in Paris and Switzerland, taking a doctorate in law. Having left the
country in protest at the Anglo-Persian Agreement of 1919, he had opposed
Reza Shah’s accession to power and had been imprisoned for it, before re-
turning to prominence in the 1940s. His whole life had been dedicated to
the cause of Iranian national integrity and constitutional government. Un-
der his leadership, the Majles voted on March 15, 1951, to nationalize Ira-
nian oil. On April 28 they named Mossadeq prime minister.
But nationalization created an impasse, as British technicians left the oil
installations in Khuzestan and the British government imposed a blockade.
No oil could be exported. Instead of contributing to the national revenue, the
maintenance of oil installations and the salaries of oil workers became a drain
on finances, gradually creating a large debt and wider economic problems.
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try and anti-royalist rioting broke out. Mossadeq sent in police and troops
to control the riots, and they succeeded, but they also alienated many of
Mossadeq’s own supporters, as well as Tudeh. So when a new demonstra-
tion appeared two days later on August 19, this time against Mossadeq, his
supporters stayed away. This demonstration included supporters of Ayatol-
lah Abol-Ghasem Kashani—previously loyal to the National Front, but
now on the other side—from the bazaar, and people paid to participate by
the CIA, which had given the coup the code name Operation Ajax. Many
members of the murky south Tehran underworld took part, including gang
leaders like Sha’ban Ja‘fari Bimokh (Sha’ban the Brainless).23 In the wake of
this demonstration Mossadeq was arrested, the army and Zahedi were in
control, and the shah returned. Mossadeq was tried and convicted of treason
by a military court but was allowed to live under house arrest until he died
in 1967.
The coup could perhaps not have happened without mistakes of
Mossadeq’s own making—and in fact it nearly failed. But it certainly would
not have happened without the intervention of the British SIS and the
American CIA.24 Although the story of the coup did not emerge for many
years and perhaps has not done so fully even now, Iranians blamed these two
agencies at the time and have done so bitterly ever since. The idea that every-
thing that happened in Iranian politics was manipulated by a hidden foreign
hand was again reinforced, fathering dozens of improbable conspiracy
theories in later years. Mossadeq became a national hero across most ideo-
logical, class, and religious boundaries.
The coup also had significance in a number of other ways. It established
the United States in Iran as the prime ally and protector of the Pahlavi
regime, and it achieved the aim of eclipsing Soviet communist influence. But
it also took away much of the enchantment the United States had previ-
ously enjoyed popularly as a virtuous alternative to the older powers. The
significance of the event took some time to sink in. For a while some Irani-
ans still believed, or hoped, that the Americans had been duped by the
British, and that fundamental U.S. values would reassert themselves. But
the United States was Prince Charming no more. One could draw a parallel
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 238
with British decisions in the 1870s and at other times, which appeared to
serve immediate short-term British interests but treated Iran as an instru-
ment to other ends rather than with the respect due a partner. In the long
run, as with British actions in the previous century, the removal of
Mossadeq damaged U.S. interests in a much more serious way than could
have been imagined at the time.
The events of 1951–1953 also alienated many Iranians from the young
shah, making popular support for him in subsequent decades equivocal at
best. Beyond Iran, the significance of the struggle to nationalize Iranian oil
was widely felt in the Middle East. It is generally accepted, for example, that
the episode played an important part in the thinking of Egypt’s Jamal Abd
al-Nasser (Nasser), who in July 1956 followed the example of Mossadeq and
nationalized the Suez Canal. It would not be the last time that Iran, for bet-
ter or worse, would indicate in advance the way events would unfold in the
region more widely.
But the Mossadeq era disillusioned many young Iranians about politics
and the chances for change. One such was Jalal Al-e Ahmad, a complex man
who was against many things, and only ambiguously in favor of a few. He
had been born into an ulema family in Tehran in 1923, but turned against a
religious career (having read Kasravi) and later became a Marxist under the
influence of Khalil Maleki, one of the group arrested by Reza Shah in 1937.
But in the long run Ahmad was too critical and too individualistic to be a
conventional Marxist. Like Maleki, he disliked the way Tudeh had to toe the
Soviet line after World War II. He actively supported Mossadeq, but after
his fall renounced politics dramatically and publicly. Like Kasravi, he had an
aversion to the traditions of classical Persian literature, favoring a lean style
of writing that echoed the colloquial Persian of ordinary people. The most
influential of his ideas was that of gharbzadegi—often translated as “Westox-
ication” or “West-strickenness”—which he put forward in talks and a book
with that title in 1962. This attacked the uncritical way in which Western
ideas had been accepted, advocated, and taught in schools. The result, said
Al-e Ahmad, was the creation of a people and a culture that were neither
genuinely Iranian nor properly Western. Following a story by Mawlana
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Rumi, he compared it to a crow that one day saw the elegant way a partridge
walked. The crow tried to imitate the partridge and failed, but kept trying,
with the result that he forgot how to walk like a crow—but never succeeded
in walking like a partridge.
As time went on, Al-e Ahmad was increasingly drawn back to religion
(having initially followed the scornful, satirical example of Hedayat), but he
always disliked the superstition and empty traditionalism of many of the
ulema—“satisfied to be the gatekeeper at the graveyard.” Later, he drew at-
tention to the way oil wealth was spent on imported absurdities that earlier
generations of Iranians could never have imagined they could want, and to
the artificial, invented historical heritage presented by Mohammad Reza
Shah as the backdrop to the Pahlavi monarchy. Al-e Ahmad brought some
of the jaded anomie of Western modernism to Iranian literature, while keep-
ing a strongly Iranian voice. He translated Sartre and Camus into Persian,
but his firm attachment to intellectual honesty and his search for an authen-
tic way to live did not borrow from anyone. He died young in 1969, and his
status as a modernist hero was only slightly weakened by his wife Simin
Daneshvar’s later revelations of his grumpy selfishness in their married life.
He was a strong influence on a whole generation of Iranian intellectuals who
were his contemporaries, and on those who came after him.25
Here the mullahs preach every evening to packed audiences. Most of the ser-
mons are revivalist stuff of a high emotional and low intellectual standard. But
certain well known preachers attract the intelligentsia of the town with rea-
soned historical exposés of considerable merit. . . . The Tehran that we saw on
the tenth of Moharram [i.e. Ashura] is a different world, centuries and civili-
sations apart from the gawdy superficial botch of cadillacs, hotels, antique
shops, villas, tourists and diplomats, where we run our daily round . . . but it is
not only poverty, ignorance and dirt that distinguish the old south from the
parvenu north. The slums have a compact self-conscious unity and communal
sense that is totally lacking in the smart districts of chlorinated water,
macadamed roads and (fitful) street lighting. The bourgeois does not know
his neighbour: the slum-dweller is intensely conscious of his. And in the
slums the spurious blessings of Pepsi Cola civilisation have not yet destroyed
the old way of life, where every man’s comfort and security depend on the
spontaneous, un-policed observation of a traditional code. Down in the
southern part of the city manners and morals are better and stricter than in
the villas of Tajrish: an injury to a neighbour, a pass at another man’s wife, a
brutality to a child evoke spontaneous retribution without benefit of bar or
bench. 29
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In 1960 the shah put forward a proposal for land reform, but by this time
the economy was slowing down, and the U.S. government (after January 1961
the Kennedy administration) was putting some pressure on the shah to liber-
alize. Many of the senior ulema disliked the land reform measure (their exten-
sive land holdings from endowments appeared to be threatened, and many
considered the infringement of property rights to be un-Islamic), and Boru-
jerdi declared a fatwa against it. The measure stalled. Prompted by the U.S.,
the lhah lifted the ban on the National Front, and their criticisms, along with
the economic problems, led to strikes and demonstrations. At the beginning
of 1963 the shah regained the initiative with a package of reforms announced
as the White Revolution. This included a renewed policy of land reform, pri-
vatization of state factories, female suffrage, and a literacy corps of young edu-
cated people to address the problem of illiteracy in the countryside. Despite a
boycott by the National Front (which insisted that such a measure should
have been presented and applied by a constitutionally elected Majles), the pro-
gram received huge support in a referendum—5.5 million out of 6.1 million
eligible voters supporting it.30 The program went ahead, augmenting and
broadening the changes in the country that were already afoot.
But early in 1963 a cleric little known outside ulema circles, Ayatollah
Ruhollah Khomeini, began to preach in Qom against the shah’s govern-
ment. He attacked its corruption, its neglect of the poor, and its failure to
uphold Iran’s sovereignty in its relationship with the United States—and he
also disliked the shah’s sale of oil to Israel. Khomeini made this move at a
time when, following the death of Ayatollah Borujerdi in 1961, many Ira-
nian Shi‘a were unclear whom to follow as marja-e taqlid. In March, on the
anniversary of the martyrdom of the Emam Jafar Sadeq, troops and
SAVAK agents attacked the madreseh where Khomeini was preaching and
arrested him, killing several students at the same time. He was released
shortly afterward but continued his attacks on the government. He made a
particularly strong speech on June 3, which was Ashura, and was arrested
again two days later.31 When the arrest became known, there were demon-
strations in Tehran and several other major cities. Drawing force from the
intense atmosphere of mourning for Emam Hosein, these demonstrations
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were repeated, and they spread widely in the days that followed. The shah
imposed martial law and put troops on the streets, but hundreds of demon-
strators (at least) were killed before the protests ended. These deaths, espe-
cially because they took place at Ashura, invited comparison with the
martyrs of Karbala on the one hand, and the tyrant Yazid on the other.
Khomeini was released in August. But despite SAVAK announcements
that he had agreed to keep quiet, he continued to speak out, and he was rear-
rested. Finally, he was deported and exiled in 1964 after a harsh speech at-
tacking both the Iranian and U.S. governments for a new law that gave the
equivalent of diplomatic immunity to U.S. military personnel in Iran:
They have reduced the Iranian people to a level lower than that of an Ameri-
can dog. If someone runs over a dog belonging to an American, he will be
prosecuted. Even if the Shah himself were to run over a dog belonging to an
American, he would be prosecuted. But if an American cook runs over the
Shah, the head of state, no one will have the right to interfere with him. . . .32
Shortly after the new law was passed in the Majles, a new U.S. loan of
$200 million for military equipment was agreed—a conjunction all too rem-
iniscent of the kinds of deals done with foreigners in the reign of Naser od-
Din Shah. Initially Khomeini went in exile to Turkey, then to Iraq, and
eventually (after the shah put pressure on the Iraqi government to remove
him from the Shi‘a center in Najaf ) to Paris in 1978. Protest in Iran died
down, aside from occasional manifestations at Tehran University and from
members of the ulema. For the shah, the message from the episode appeared
to be that he could govern autocratically and overcome short-term dissent
with repression. In the longer term, he believed, his policies for development
would bring benefits to ordinary people and secure his rule.
Khomeini
Ruhollah Khomeini was born in September 1902 in Khomein, a small town
between Isfahan and Tehran. He came from a family of seyyed (descendants
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of the Prophet) whose patriarchs had been mullahs for many generations, and
may originally have come from Nishapur. In the eighteenth century one of his
ancestors had moved to India, where the family had lived in Kintur, near Luc-
know, before his grandfather—known as Seyyed Ahmad Musavi Hindi—
moved back to Persia and settled in Khomein in about 1839. He bought a large
house there and was a man of property and status. Ahmad’s son Mostafa stud-
ied in Isfahan, Najaf, and Samarra and married the daughter of a distinguished
clerical family. Mostafa belonged to the upper echelons of the ulema, a cut
above the mullahs who had to make a living as jobbing teachers, legal notaries,
or preachers. This made him an important figure in the area, and it seems that
it was while he was attempting to mediate in a local dispute that he was mur-
dered in 1903, when Ruhollah, his third son, was only six months old.33
Ruhollah grew up in Khomein through the turbulent years of the Consti-
tutional Revolution and the First World War, over which period Khomein
was raided a number of times by Lori tribesmen. In 1918 his mother died in
a cholera epidemic, leaving him an orphan as he was about to enter the sem-
inary nearby in Soltanabad. It may be that the absence of his father as a
child and becoming orphaned as a youth added impetus to the young
Khomeini’s ambition and drive to excel in his studies. Later he moved to
Qom, where as a student of Shaykh Abdolkarim Ha’eri he wore the black
turban of a seyyed. In Qom he received the conventional education in logic
and religious law of a mullah, becoming a mojtahed in about 1936.34 It was a
young age for such an accomplishment, and a sign of his promise. From that
time he began to teach and write. He was always a little unconventional,
having an interest in poetry and mysticism (erfan) that more conservative
mullahs would have disapproved of. He read Molla Sadra’s Four Journeys and
the Fusus al-Hikam of Ibn Arabi, and his first writings were commentaries on
mystical and philosophical texts. In the 1930s he studied philosophy and er-
fan with Mirza Mohammad Ali Shahabadi, who as well as being an author-
ity on mysticism believed in the importance of explaining religious ideas to
ordinary people in language they could understand. Shahabadi opposed the
rule of Reza Shah and also influenced Khomeini’s politics.35
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generally failed—a school board member said in 1970 that the policy had
been “Keep Iran Out.” In the mid-1960s an American hospital in Tehran
took on some well-educated Iranian nurses to supplement its staff. The Ira-
nians were not allowed to speak in Persian, even among themselves, and
were excluded from the staff canteen, which was kept for U.S. citizens only.
The Iranian nurses had to eat in the janitor’s room. The hospital cared only
for American patients, and one day when a desperate Iranian father tried to
bring in his child, who had just been seriously injured by a car in the street
outside, he was sent away to find transport to another hospital. Other
Americans, notably those with the Peace Corps, worked alongside ordinary
Iranians and were much appreciated. But the majority were in Iran for the
money and the lavish lifestyle, which they could not have afforded at home:
As the gold rush began and the contracts increased, the American presence
expanded. The very best and the very worst of America were on display in the
cities of Iran. As time passed and the numbers grew, an increasingly high pro-
portion of fortune hunters, financial scavengers, and the jobless and disillu-
sioned recently returned from Southeast Asia found their way to Iran.
Companies with billion-dollar contracts needed manpower and, under time
pressure, recruited blindly and carelessly. In Isfahan, hatred, racism and igno-
rance combined as American employees responded negatively and aggressively
to Iranian society.42
depictions of half-dressed women advertised the latest films. Status, and the
lack of it, is not just about money; it is also about sex and desire. Tehran was
a place of aspiration, but in the late 1970s it became for many a place of re-
sentment, frustrated desire, and disappointed aspirations.
In an inspired passage Roy Mottahedeh described this time in Tehran as
the time of montazh, when imported things were being assembled and put
together in the city, often rather less than satisfactorily, and never quite com-
plete—a time when everything in Tehran seemed to be “intimately con-
nected with the airport”:
The most obvious examples of montazh were the ubiquitous Paykan cars
assembled just outside Tehran from imported parts (to the design of the
British Hillman Hunter), but the same principle could be seen or imagined
at work elsewhere too: in corrupt property deals, in big buildings put up
without enough cement, in the chaotic traffic, and in the new plaques and
statues of the shah that appeared everywhere.
As the 1970s advanced, the political culture of the shah’s regime became
more repressive and hardened on the one hand, and more remote and attenu-
ated on the other. SAVAK had a new target in those years—radical move-
ments prepared to use violence against the regime. This notably included the
Marxist Feda’i and the Mojahedin-e Khalq Organization (MKO), both of
which fused Islam and Marxism. SAVAK expanded, and its use of torture be-
came routine. In 1975 Amnesty International pronounced the shah’s govern-
ment to be one of the world’s worst violators of human rights. The previous
two tame parties in the Majles became one, called Rastakhiz (Resurgence),
with a role simply to support and applaud the shah’s efforts. Politics became a
matter of who could be most sycophantic to the shah in public:
The Shah’s only fault is that he is really too good for his people—his ideas are
too great for us to realize them.45
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The shah himself rarely met ordinary Iranians. He went from place to
place by helicopter and, following various assassination attempts, viewed pa-
rades and other events from inside a special bulletproof glass box. In 1971 he
held an event at the historic sites of Persepolis and Pasargadae to celebrate,
supposedly, the twenty-five-hundredth anniversary of the Iranian monarchy.
This was folie de grandeur on a sublime scale. Heads of state from around the
world were invited, but those from monarchies were given precedence. So
Haile Selassie of Ethiopia was specially honored, while President Pompidou
of France was set low in the precedence order. Pompidou took umbrage and
sent his prime minister instead.46 Thousands dressed up as ancient Medes
and Persians, television coverage of the event was beamed around the world
by satellite, and the distinguished guests drank champagne and other im-
ported luxuries (the catering was laid on by Maxim’s of Paris in three huge
air-conditioned tents and fifty-nine smaller ones, and twenty-five thousand
bottles of wine were imported for the event—rumors of the overall cost
ranged as high as $200 million47). The shah made a speech claiming continu-
ity with Cyrus, and a rebirth of ancient Iranian greatness.
But the Achaemenids meant little to most Iranians—they had probably
never been to Persepolis, and what they knew of ancient Iran revolved
around the stories of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh rather than what might or might
not appear in Herodotus, or had been discovered at archaeological sites.
There had long been an anticlerical, secularizing strand of nationalist think-
ing that appealed to the pre-Islamic, monarchical tradition of Iran, but it was
a slender reed to carry this burden of regime self-projection. For most the Ira-
nian heritage was an Islamic heritage, and the jollifications at Persepolis left
them nonplussed. Khomeini denounced the event from Iraq, thundering that
Islam was fundamentally opposed to monarchy in principle, that the crimes
of Iranian kings had blackened the pages of history, and that even the ones re-
membered as good had in fact been “vile and cruel.”48 The shah also replaced
the Islamic calendar with a calendar that took year one as the year of the ac-
cession of Cyrus, which again left most Iranians irritated and baffled.
For some members of the minorities in Iran, the reign of Mohammad
Reza Shah was a good time of relative freedom and absence of persecution,
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Later that month the Writers’ Association, repressed since 1964, resurrected
itself and pressed for the same goals—as well as for the removal of censor-
ship (many of the leading members were Tudeh sympathizers or broadly left-
ist). In July the shah replaced Amir Abbas Hoveyda, his prime minister for
twelve years, with Jasmshid Amuzegar, who was perceived to be more liberal.
In the autumn more political associations formed or re-formed—including
the National Front, under the leadership of Sanjabi, Bakhtiar, and Foruhar;
and the Freedom Movement, closely allied with the National Front, under
Mehdi Bazargan and Ebrahim Yazdi.50
On November 19 the Writers’ Association held a poetry evening—the
tenth in a series of such evenings—at the Goethe Institut. About ten thou-
sand students were present, and this time the police tried to break it up.
When the students poured into the streets to protest, the police attacked
them, killing one, injuring seventy, and arresting about a hundred. But on
this occasion civilian courts tried the students and quickly acquitted them.
While in exile, Khomeini kept up a stream of messages and speeches
critical of the regime, which were smuggled into Iran and distributed, often
using cassette tapes. Having developed his theory of opposition into a full-
blown theory for Islamic government, he set this out in a book, based on
lectures he gave in Najaf in 1970, with the title Hokumat-e Eslami: Velayat-e
Faqih (Islamic Government: Regency of the Jurist).51 In this text the Usuli
thinking of the previous two centuries—a line of thought that had helped
the ulema develop a hierarchy and had allowed them in effect to stand in
for the Hidden Emam—was developed to its logical extreme: permission
for the ulema to rule directly. This was the meaning of the term velayat-e
faqih, which needs explaining. A vali was a regent or deputy, someone repre-
senting the person with real authority—it was the title taken by Karim
Khan Zand in the eighteenth century, when he forbore to make himself
shah. Velayat meant regency, guardianship, or deputyship—or rather, by ex-
tension, the authority of the deputy or regent. The term faqih signifies a jurist,
an expert in Islamic law—fiqh. The logic of the concept was that the shari‘a,
derived from the word of God and the example of the Prophet, was there to
regulate human conduct, and was the only legitimate law. In the absence of
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the Hidden Emam, the mojtaheds were the right people to interpret and ap-
ply the shari‘a. So obviously, they were the right people to rule, too. Who
else? From this point onward, Khomeini demanded the removal of the shah
and the establishment of Islamic government. He delivered clear and consis-
tent demands that the whole country could understand (at least they
thought they could—what exactly Islamic government might mean in prac-
tice remained less clear), and that increasingly made him the focal point for
opposition to the shah.
The principle of velayat-e faqih was not accepted by the ulema as a
whole—indeed not accepted by very many. But since the First World War
the ulema had been jostled and edged out of many of their traditional roles
of authority in society by the secularizing Pahlavi monarchy. Under Mo-
hammad Reza Shah the regime even attempted, in the late 1960s and 1970s
(as part of the White Revolution program), to replace the traditional ulema
with a new religious structure of mosques and mullahs answerable to the
state. There was little popular enthusiasm for the state religion (din-e
dawlat), but it succeeded in alienating the ulema as a whole even further
from the shah. Ayatollahs Montazeri and Taleqani were arrested and sen-
tenced to internal exile after disturbances at Tehran University and in Qom
in 1970–1972.52 But where Tudeh, the National Front, and the violent radi-
cals were battered and disrupted by years of conflict with SAVAK, the in-
formal nationwide network of mullahs and religious leaders—reaching into
every social class, every bazaar guild, and every village—was still there in the
late 1970s, as it had been in 1906. Its continuing presence reflected the en-
during power of this alternative source of authority in Shi‘a Iranian society.
In the theory of velayat-e faqih and Khomeini, the ulema had the defining
political principle and the leader that they had lacked in 1906.
By the end of 1977 the shah had alienated the ulema, alienated the
bazaaris, and had created a large, poor, deracinated working class in Tehran.
He had also alienated many of the educated middle classes—his natural
supporters—through his repression and abuses of human rights. Some of
these had in addition been radicalized by their experience of leftist politics
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in Europe in the late 1960s and 1970s. But there was another important in-
fluence on the thinking of this generation—Ali Shariati.
Shariati was born in 1933, near Sabzavar in Khorasan. He grew up to be a
lively, highly intelligent, extroverted youth with a strong sense of humor,
someone who enjoyed ridiculing his teachers. He was influenced by his fa-
ther, who had been an advocate of progressive Islam in his own right, but also
by writers like Hedayat and Western thinkers like Schopenhauer and Kafka.
Later Shariati went to Mashhad University, and then to Paris, where he stud-
ied under Marxist professors, read Guevara and Sartre, communicated with
the Martinique-born theorist and revolutionary activist Frantz Fanon, and
took a doctorate in sociology (in 1964). His political activism also attracted
the attention of SAVAK. Returning to Iran in 1965, he taught students in
Mashhad and later in Tehran, attracting large numbers to his lectures, and
wrote a series of important books and speeches. The general message was that
Shi‘ism provided its own ideology of social justice and resistance to oppres-
sion. This had been masked by a false Shi‘ism of superstition and deference to
monarchy (Black Shi‘ism, Safavid Shi‘ism), but the essential truths of the reli-
gion were timeless, centering on the martyrdom of Hosein and his compan-
ions. Shariati was not a Marxist, but he could be said to have recast Shi‘a Islam
in a revolutionary mold, comparable to the Marxist model: “Everywhere is
Karbala and every day is Ashura.”53 For the shah’s regime, he was too hot to
handle. He was imprisoned in 1972, released in 1975, kept under house ar-
rest, and allowed to go to England in 1977. He died there that June, appar-
ently of a heart attack, though many Iranians believe he was murdered by
SAVAK. Khomeini would never endorse Shariati’s thinking directly, but was
careful never to condemn it either. Shariati’s radical Islamism, both fully Ira-
nian and fully modern, was a strong influence on the generation of students
that grew to adulthood in the 1970s.54
Through the inflation and the economic slump and deflation that fol-
lowed, many Iranians—including well-off ones—had come to doubt their
assumptions about steady growth and economic security. There had also
been a number of incidents in which the shah had made himself look foolish
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Revolution
In January 1978 an article appeared in the paper Ettela’at, attacking the clergy
and Khomeini as “black reactionaries.” The article had been written by
someone trusted by the regime and approved by the court, but had been re-
fused by the more independently edited paper Kayhan. It twisted facts and
invented fictions, suggesting that Khomeini was a foreigner (from his grand-
father’s birth in India and name, Hindi), a former British spy, and a poet
(the last was true, and was intended to detract from his clerical seriousness
because most ulema, with some backing from the Qor’an, disapproved of
poetry).55 The article immediately prompted a protest demonstration in
Qom, in which thousands of religious students heaped abuse on the “Yazid
government” and demanded an apology, a constitution, and the return of
Khomeini. There were clashes with the police and a number of students
were shot dead. The following day Khomeini, by now in Paris, praised the
courage of the students and called for more demonstrations. Ayatollah
Shari‘atmadari, one of the most senior marjas at the time, condemned the
shootings.
After a traditional mourning period of forty days, the bazaars and univer-
sities closed, and there were peaceful demonstrations in twelve cities, includ-
ing in Tabriz, where again the police fired on the crowd, causing more
deaths. The forty-day rhythm continued, like a great revolutionary lung,
with the almost unanimous support of the ulema (though many of the cler-
ics called for mourners to attend the mosques rather than to demonstrate).
The demonstrations grew larger and more violent, with slogans like “death
to the shah.” After the end of May there was a lull (among other reasons, Ay-
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But it was all too late. As autumn went into winter, more and more work-
ers spent more and more time on strike. The violence intensified again at the
beginning of Moharram in December. In Qazvin, 135 demonstrators died
when tanks drove over them. On the day of Ashura itself, December 11,
more than one million people demonstrated in the streets of Tehran. After
Ashura, street gangs roamed the capital at will. There were more and more
signs that the army, which had experienced mass desertions, was no longer
reliable. By this time, President Carter’s support for the shah was clearly on
the wane, and many Americans were leaving Iran after attacks on U.S.-
owned offices and even the U.S. Embassy. The shah had lost control. On
January 16, 1979, he left the country. On February 1, Khomeini flew back to
Tehran.
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8
Iran Since the
Revolution
Islamic Revival, War, and Confrontation
In the Air France passenger jet that Ayatollah Khomeini took from Paris to
Tehran—before it was even clear that the aircraft would be allowed to
land—a Western journalist asked him what his feelings were about return-
ing to Iran. He replied Hichi—“nothing.”1 This grumpy response to unimag-
inative journalism did not demonstrate a deep indifference to Iran or the
well-being of the Iranian people, as has sometimes been claimed. Khomeini’s
reply has a gnomic quality that challenges interpretation.
Whether one approves of Khomeini or not, it is indisputable that when
he arrived in Tehran on February 1, 1979, he was the focal point of the
259
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 260
hopes of a whole nation. In some sense they reflected him and he them—at
that moment, at least. It may be that the euphoric crowds welcoming him
numbered as many as three million. This was in accordance with Kho-
meini’s sense of himself—his idea of spiritual development was that of Ibn
Arabi’s Perfect Man.2 Through contemplation, religious observance, and dis-
cipline, his aim was to approach the point at which his inner world reflected
the world beyond himself—and, in turn, reflected and became a channel for
the mind of God. As he left the aircraft, his car made its difficult way
through the crowds from the airport to the Behesht-e Zahra cemetery for
Khomeini to honor the martyrs killed in the demonstrations of the last few
months. As he passed, the people chanted not just “Allahu Akbar” (God is
Great) but also “Khomeini, O Emam.” In Shi‘a mysticism (erfan), the Emam
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0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 261
and the Perfect Man were one and the same. No human being since the dis-
appearance of the Twelfth Emam had been acclaimed with the title Emam
(many senior ulema never accepted the title for Khomeini).3 The followers
and the crowds were not saying directly that Khomeini was the Hidden
Emam returned to earth, but it was very close to it. Centuries before, the
Arab poet Farazdaq saw the fourth Emam at Mecca, and afterward wrote:
He lowers his gaze out of modesty. Others lower their gaze for awe of him. He
is not spoken to except when he smiles.4
figuring the even worse treatment that was visited on the Kurds of Iraq
later in the 1980s.
Even before he returned to Iran, Khomeini had been making speeches
critical of the shah’s leftist opponents. At the end of March 1979 he set the
seal on the removal of the shah and the establishment of a state based on
Islamic principles with a referendum that returned ninety-seven percent
support for the establishment of an Islamic republic. In May Khomeini es-
tablished the Revolutionary Guard Corps (Sepah-e Pasdaran) as a reliable
military force to balance the army and to supplement the gangs of street
fighters that became known as Hezbollah—the party of God. The extensive
property of the shah’s Pahlavi Foundation was transferred to a new
Bonyad-e Mostazefin (Foundation for the Oppressed), which became a vehi-
cle both for the projection of the regime’s social policies and for political
patronage.
The executions of old regime members shocked moderates and liberals
(including Bazargan), as well as many of those around the world who had
initially welcomed the fall of the shah. The killings stopped for a time in
mid-March, but continued again in April, when Hoveyda was shot. Khome-
ini had initially called for moderation, but acquiesced to the pressure from
young radicals urging revenge for the deaths of the previous year. The young
Islamic radicals were his weapon against the rival groups that had partici-
pated in the revolution.6 In April and May Khomeini was given a sharp re-
minder of the seriousness of the struggle and the consequences of failure,
when several of his close supporters, including notably Morteza Motahhari,
were assassinated.
The Shi‘a ulema had probably never been as powerful as it was at the mo-
ment Khomeini returned from exile. But Khomeini was something of a par-
venu among the senior ulema, and the Islamic regime he created reflected
his highly individual personality at least as much as it did the nature of tra-
ditional Shi‘ism. At the time of the revolution there were other senior fig-
ures who commanded great respect, but who were pushed aside by the
enormous popularity of Khomeini immediately after his return from exile.
The most prominent of these was Ayatollah Seyyed Kazem Shari‘atmadari,
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 264
who argued for a more moderate line in 1979 and was quickly silenced.
Some of his supporters were executed. Khomeini later rescinded Shari‘at-
madari’s status as marja-e taqlid—a wholly unprecedented step. The princi-
ple of velayat-e faqih was still a dubious novelty for many senior Shi‘a figures,
several of whom spoke out against it in 1980–1981. But they too were in-
timidated into silence. Khomeini and his supporters successfully consoli-
dated their control, based on the principle of velayat-e faqih, but it never
commanded universal support among the Iranian ulema.7 A reassertion of
Islamic values followed—including a reappearance of ulema as judges, and a
reapplication of shari‘a law. Although this has been moderated in some re-
spects by laws passed centrally, some extreme practices like stoning for adul-
tery (though infrequent) have continued and have attracted international
criticism.
By the autumn of 1979 the liberals and moderates were looking increas-
ingly marginalized. Over the summer, Khomeini had formed the Islamic
Republic Party (IRP), and the first draft of the constitution, put together by
Bazargan—similar to the constitution of 1906, minus the monarch—had
been radically rewritten by the Assembly of Experts, which was dominated
by ulema loyal to Khomeini. The Assembly of Experts had come together
after an election marred by liberal and leftist boycotts and allegations of rig-
ging. In its final form the constitution set up the system that still runs Iran
today, and which still reflects Khomeini’s idea of velayat-e faqih: that day-to-
day government should be secular, but with ultimate power in the hands of
a religious leader committed to Islamic government. The constitution set up
an elected presidency, an elected Majles, and elected municipal councils, but
it also established a Council of Guardians (twelve clerics and jurists) to vet
and approve candidates before they could run for election, and to approve or
veto legislation passed by the Majles. Above all, it confirmed Khomeini him-
self, and his successors, in the supreme position in the constitution. He had
the right to appoint half the members of the Guardian Council, to approve
the appointment of the president, and to appoint the head of the Revolu-
tionary Guard Corps and the other heads of the armed forces. While
Khomeini used the constitution to consolidate his gains, he was prepared
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 265
throughout to use violent, extra-legal means to secure his ends, to take and
keep the political initiative, and leave his opponents to debate over the rights
and wrongs of what had happened. This last was a principle he claimed to
have taken from the clerical politician of the 1920s, Modarres: “You hit first
and let others complain. Don’t be the victim and don’t complain.”8
Press freedom was also curtailed over the summer, in a concerted cam-
paign. Hezbollah attacked newspaper offices, as well as the offices of politi-
cal parties, forty newspapers closed down, and two of the biggest—Ettela’at
and Kayhan—were taken over by the Bonyad-e Mostazefin. At the same
time SAVAK, after the removal of its chiefs and officers by one means or an-
other, was slowly being turned into an agency of the Islamic state (along
with Evin prison). In 1984 it was renamed the Ministry of Intelligence and
Security (MOIS).
In November 1979, prompted by the news that the shah had been al-
lowed into the United States for treatment of his cancer (which finally killed
him in July 1980), students broke into the U.S. Embassy and took the diplo-
mats there hostage. Initially people thought this was just another student
demonstration (something similar had happened in February), but when
Khomeini backed the students and a continuation of the hostage crisis,
Bazargan and his fellow Freedom Movement politicians resigned. Early in
1980 a new president, Abol-Hasan Bani Sadr, was elected under the new con-
stitutional arrangements. He had general support, including from middle-
class liberals. For the next year and a half he strove to resolve the hostage
crisis, and to uphold principles of conventional legality and secular govern-
ment. But like Bazargan before him, he ultimately failed and in 1981 was
impeached by Khomeini.
Khomeini meanwhile exploited the hostage crisis to preserve a revolu-
tionary fluidity and sense of crisis that enabled him to wrong-foot his oppo-
nents. He ordered purges to remove civil servants who were suspected of
secularist or antirevolutionary attitudes, closed the universities to eject left-
ists and impose Islamic principles (they reopened, initially on a much re-
duced basis, in 1982), and used the Komitehs and Hezbollah to force
women to wear the veil. The sense of continuing crisis was only enhanced by
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War
In September 1980 Saddam Hossein’s forces invaded Iran, beginning an
eight-year war and intensifying pressure on the Iranian regime. Opinion dif-
fers over the origins of the Iran/Iraq war—whether Saddam opportunisti-
cally attacked Iran at a moment of perceived Iranian weakness, in the hope
of snatching some quick gains in the Shatt-al Arab and elsewhere (attempt-
ing to put right a border dispute that had been resolved unfavorably for Iraq
in the previous decade) or whether Iranian religious/revolutionary propa-
ganda in 1979/1980, apparently directed at starting a revolution among Iraqi
Shi‘as and destroying his regime, left him little choice. But Saddam was the
aggressor, invading and occupying Iranian territory. By the end of that im-
mensely destructive war, Iranian talk of exporting religious revolution (one of
the few concrete results of which was the Iranian contribution to the estab-
lishment of Hezbollah in Lebanon in the early 1980s) had faded. As many as
one million Iranians were killed or injured, and a whole generation was
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 268
pieces of his shroud as relics. Khomeini’s last months had been overshad-
owed by the hard decision to end the war with Iraq, and this may have af-
fected his health, but he was also suffering from cancer and heart disease.
One significant event in these last months was what is conventionally called
the fatwa against Salman Rushdie in February 1989 (some have suggested it
would be more accurately described as a hokm—a religious judgment). It
seems that Khomeini had been made aware of Rushdie’s book The Satanic
Verses some months earlier, but had dismissed it as unimportant (he had not
even banned it from being imported). Reconsidering the question later—af-
ter demonstrations by Muslims in Britain and riots in Kashmir and Paki-
stan—he then delivered the fatwa as a deliberate act, to reassert his and
Iran’s claim to the leadership of Islam.12 It was another classic Khomeini
move, one that trumpeted Iran’s Islamic and revolutionary uniqueness. But
it also made more difficulties for those who might have wanted to bring Iran
out of isolation into some kind of normality.
Another event occurred in these last months that illustrates again the
degree to which Khomeini had been (and remained) an enigma even
among the ulema. Early in January 1989 Khomeini sent a letter to the So-
viet leader Mikhail Gorbachev, observing accurately that communism now
belonged in the museum of history. Before he fell into the snare of material-
istic capitalism, Khomeini said, Gorbachev should study Islam as a way of
life. At first impression this seems an odd suggestion, but perhaps Khome-
ini sensed an affinity with Gorbachev—as an unconventional thinker
hemmed in by unsympathetic and less imaginative minds. The form of Islam
that Khomeini recommended upset many of his ulema colleagues—he com-
mended to Gorbachev not the Qor’an nor any of the conventional works
but instead the writings of Ibn Arabi, Avicenna, and Sohravardi. With the
letter he sent three of his closest companions and pupils, versed in Islamic
mysticism. Whatever his private thoughts, Gorbachev thanked them and
expressed his pride at having received a personal letter from the Emam. But
the letter attracted criticism from clergy in Qom, some of whom upbraided
Khomeini in an open letter for having recommended mystics and philoso-
phers. Khomeini responded with a “letter to the clergy” that vented the
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 271
This old father of yours has suffered more from stupid reactionary mullahs
than anyone else. When theology meant no interference in politics, stupidity
became a virtue. If a clergyman was able, and aware of what was going on [in
the world around him], they searched for a plot behind it. You were consid-
ered more pious if you walked in a clumsy way. Learning foreign languages
was blasphemy, philosophy and mysticism were considered to be sin and infi-
delity. . . . Had this trend continued, I have no doubt the clergy and seminaries
would have trodden the same path as the Christian Church did in the Middle
Ages.13
Before the revolution, ascent through the ranks of the mojtaheds had
been an informal process, but through the 1980s it became much more
structured—policed and controlled by Khomeini and his followers.14 As the
hierarchy of Iranian Shi‘ism came under control, so did doctrine: Khomeini
was attempting to create out of the previous plurality a conformism to a sin-
gle idea of Shi‘ism. In the 1990s this development went further. Examina-
tions were set up for aspiring mojtaheds, and political loyalty—and
adherence to the velayat-e faqih—became more important than piety, depth
of religious understanding, intellectual strength, or the approval of a loose
group of senior clerics, as had previously been the case. A new group of po-
litical ayatollahs, selected in this new way, proliferated.15 Others, more de-
serving in traditional terms, remained mere mojtaheds.
This meant that the revolution had instituted a religion controlled by the
state and subordinated to state interests. The situation was oddly similar,
from that perspective, to the din-e dawlat the shah had earlier attempted as
part of the White Revolution—with the difference that this state was
headed by a mojtahed rather than a monarch. By the mid to late 1990s some
independent voices warned of the dangers of the new order. Notable among
them was the thinker and theologian Abdolkarim Soroush, who called for a
secular government and predicted that, otherwise, the compromises and
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 272
Three days ago, a religious judge from one of the provinces, who is a trust-
worthy man, visited me in Qom to express concern about the way your re-
cent orders have been carried out. He said that an intelligence officer, or a
prosecutor—I don’t know which—was interrogating a prisoner to deter-
mine whether he still maintained his [old] position. Was he prepared to
condemn the hypocrite organisation [the Mojahedin]? The prisoner said
“Yes.’” Was he prepared to take part in a [television] interview? “Yes,” said the
prisoner. Was he prepared to go to the front to fight the Iraqis? “Yes,” he said.
Was he prepared to walk into a minefield? The inmate replied that not
everyone was prepared to walk over mines and, furthermore, the newly con-
verted could not be expected to do so. The inmate was told that it was clear
that he still maintained his [old] position, and he was duly dealt with. The
religious judge’s insistence that a decision should be based on a unanimous,
not a majority, vote fell on deaf ears. He said that intelligence officials have
the largest say everywhere and in practice influence others. Your Holiness
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 273
might take note of how your orders, that concern the lives of thousands of
people, are carried out.19
Some believe that the real rift was over the Iran/Contra arms deal—that
Montazeri was left in the dark over the discussions with the United States
and reacted badly when he found out. He also criticized the fatwa against
Rushdie, saying that foreigners were getting the impression that Iranians
were interested only in murdering people. Whatever the details, shortly be-
fore Khomeini’s death in June 1989 it was made known that Montazeri
would not follow Khomeini as Supreme Leader. Instead, Khomeini’s close
confidant Ali Khamenei took the role, having been promoted suddenly from
hojjatoleslam to ayatollah—despite having had no very distinguished reputa-
tion as a scholar previously (several senior ayatollahs protested at
Khamenei’s elevation, with the extraordinary result that he became
Supreme Leader but only a marja for Shi‘as outside Iran). Since that time
Montazeri has lived mainly under house arrest, and has made several state-
ments against the conduct of the regime—arguing for a more limited role
for the velayat-e faqih, for properly constitutional and democratic govern-
ment, and an end to human rights abuses.
Despite the efforts of the regime to marginalize him, Montazeri is still
the marja-e taqlid for many religious Iranians, along with others who keep a
certain distance from the regime. Another important example is Grand Aya-
tollah Yousef Sanei, who has stated directly that the possession or use of nu-
clear weapons is unacceptable, and that Iran did not retaliate with chemical
weapons against Saddam because marjas concurred that weapons of mass
destruction as a whole were unacceptable. Sanei has also issued a fatwa
against suicide bombings. Although Shi‘as may have been responsible for the
devastating suicide attack against the U.S. marine headquarters in Beirut in
1983, Lebanese Hezbollah later stopped using the tactic and since then to
my knowledge Shi‘a Muslims have not perpetrated suicide attacks.
These are just a few illustrations of the important fact that Iranian
Shi‘ism, let alone Shi‘ism outside Iran, is bigger than the current Iranian reli-
gious leadership—something observers from outside the region too often
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 274
fail to register. In recent years dissent from the regime party line has gath-
ered strength among the Iranian ulema, and reform-minded thinkers like
Mohsen Kadivar and Mohammad Mojtahed Shabestari have gained a fol-
lowing for their attempts to address current problems within an Islamic
context in an intellectually honest and rigorous way.20 In a sense, Shi‘ism is
doing something the religion has always done—legitimizing an alternative
pole of authority to that power wielded by the dominant regime. At the
same time, the moral authority of the ruling clique has withered just as the
moral authority of the Bolsheviks withered.
Several commentators have remarked upon the caesura in Iranian politics
created by the end of the Iran/Iraq war and the death of Khomeini.21 The
third event that marked this change was the election of Rafsanjani, the for-
mer Majles speaker, as president, in August 1989 (replacing Khamenei, who
became Supreme Leader in place of Khomeini in June). As he became presi-
dent, Rafsanjani announced a new era of reconstruction. Ali Ansari has
called it the mercantile bourgeois republic, the period in which the bazaari
middle class—long the bedrock of support for the political ulema—finally
came into their kingdom.
The war had done huge damage to the Iranian economy and to the living
standards of ordinary Iranians. Per capita income had fallen by at least forty
percent since 1978.22 In the border areas where the fighting had taken place,
some 1.6 million people had been made homeless, and refineries, factories,
government buildings, roads, bridges, ports, and irrigation works had all been
destroyed. The country as a whole had to look after large numbers of badly
injured ex-servicemen, including people suffering from the after-effects of
chemical weapons, many of whom still suffer today. In addition, there were
refugees from Iraq—a large number fled to Iran after the first Gulf War in
1991, when the United States and the UK encouraged a Shi‘a revolt, and
then stood aside while Saddam massacred the rebels—and from Afghani-
stan, where fighting had been raging since the Soviet invasion of 1979. By
the end of the 1990s, Iran was hosting more than two million refugees. Un-
like Iraq, Iran had come out of the war without a serious debt burden, but
the need for reconstruction was great, and Iran’s continuing international
isolation was a handicap.
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 275
The war had an important unifying effect in the country, and the sacrifices
made by ordinary people enhanced their sense of citizenship and commit-
ment to the Islamic republic. The war was the first major conflict involving
large numbers of ordinary Iranians since the early nineteenth century—per-
haps since Nader Shah. But the commitment and sacrifices were not a blank
check. People expected something back when the war was over. Rafsanjani
promised them precisely this as he was elected. In particular, he promised de-
velopment and an improvement in living standards for the poorest—the
mostazefin—upon whom, as usual, the heaviest burdens had fallen.
But there was disagreement about the policy means to achieve these
goals, and results were mixed. Since the revolution, for the necessity of the
prosecution of the war but also to serve the declared aim of greater social
equality, the regime had followed broadly statist economic policies. Now
Rafsanjani, true to his bazaari origins and sympathies, tried to build the
economy by pursuing greater market freedom. But disagreements within the
regime hampered the effort—in particular, privatization measures went
ahead and then were halted, amid accusations of mismanagement and cor-
ruption. Some progress and some expansion of the economy were achieved,
but less than had been hoped. Industrial and agricultural production in-
creased, as did exports—especially agricultural exports, and, notably, pista-
chio exports, in which Rafsanjani’s own family had a significant stake. But
the economy remained heavily dependent on oil, the oil industry remained
inefficient for lack of international help to secure the most up-to-date tech-
nology, and that help was further blocked by U.S. economic sanctions,
which sharpened through the 1990s as part of the policy of dual contain-
ment applied to both Iran and Iraq. Much investment in the economy went
into a construction boom, which benefited the investors, but less so the
mostazefin, if at all.23
By the midpoint of Rafsanjani’s second term (1993–1997), there was
widespread disappointment with his efforts. Living standards, especially for
the less well off, had not improved in the way the people had been led to
hope. Unemployment was increasing, partly as a result of sluggish economic
performance but also because the population had continued to expand dra-
matically over the previous twenty years. Iran’s rate of population growth
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 276
was one of the highest in the world in this period—the total went from 33.7
million at the time of the 1976 census to 48.2 million in 1986 and to an esti-
mated 68.5 million in 2007—though the rate of increase has now moder-
ated. Tehran grew to a city of some 12 million people. Throughout the
1990s large numbers of new would-be workers were coming onto the job
market each year.
Despite the problems, the first eighteen years of the Islamic republic had
achieved important beneficial results for many ordinary Iranians. A deter-
mined push to improve conditions for the rural population succeeded where
the Pahlavi regime had largely failed, introducing piped water, health ser-
vices, electricity, and schools even in some of the most remote districts. Life
expectancy lifted sharply, along with literacy rates (now around eighty per-
cent—eighty-six percent for men and seventy-three percent for women).
Perhaps the most important improvement, reflected in the literacy rate, was
in education. Primary education was, at last, effectively extended to all. Iran
is a country with a strong cultural appreciation of literacy, education, and in-
tellectual attainment, and families made the most of the new opportunities.
The effect of the revolution on the position of women was typically
mixed. They lost the better treatment at divorce that the last shah had intro-
duced, which meant that fathers in principle got child custody—although in
practice, as Ziba Mir-Hosseini’s film Divorce Iranian Style demonstrated,
women often manage to find ways around this principle in the divorce
courts.24 But women retained the vote. While polygamy and child marriage
were made legal again, they almost never happen, except in some Sunni areas
like Baluchistan. The imposition of the veil, along with encouragement from
the religious hierarchy, allowed tradition-minded fathers to let their daugh-
ters attend schools, which were normally established on a single-sex basis.
Girls took to this new opportunity with such energy and application that
now sixty-six percent of students admitted to Iranian universities are
women.25 Given the pressure on families to make ends meet, many of these
women take up jobs after university and work alongside men, and continue
to do so even after marriage (though many also languish in unemployment).
Some observers, notably Farah Azari, have remarked upon the way that or-
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 277
thodox, traditional Shi‘ism has worked in the past to repress women and fe-
male sexuality in Iran, linking that to male anxiety in periods of social and
economic change. There are still books to be written on the other distor-
tions this has caused historically.26 The success of women’s education, and
the greatly expanded importance of women in the workplace and in the
economy, is a huge social and cultural change in Iran—one that in time, and
combined with other factors, is likely to have profound consequences for
Iranian society as a whole. Surveys have indicated that this is already emerg-
ing in more liberal attitudes toward education, the family, and work.27 There
are parallel changes in attitude away from religion toward more secular, lib-
eral, and nationalistic positions.28 Some clerics among the ulema are chal-
lenging the religious judgments on the status of women that were pushed
through into law at the time of the revolution. These developments are not
peripheral but are absolutely central to the future of the country.
Reform?
Women were some of the strongest supporters of President Khatami, who
was elected in May 1997 with a reformist program. Without attacking the
velayat-e faqih, Khatami called for proper constitutional government and for
a halt to extra-judicial violence. He said several times that he believed his re-
form program was the last chance for the Islamic republic—that if reform
were blocked, the people would demand secular government and overturn
the theocratic regime altogether. But his reforms were blocked, and the
regime became increasingly unpopular, especially among young people. Lev-
els of attendance at mosques have plummeted. Over the last decade the
hard-line regime has become more and more overtly self-serving, cynically
using its religious trappings, and manipulating elections to keep vested in-
terests in power.
Khatami’s election was an unpleasant surprise for the hard-line leader-
ship (they had supported his opponent Nateq Nuri), and they seemed to
take some time to adjust to the changed conditions of politics that followed.
Khatami won seventy percent of the vote in an election that captured the
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 278
national imagination as none had done for years. This victory energized a
new generation of young Iranians and gave them hope for the future. Unfor-
tunately, Khatami was outmaneuvered by his opponents, and those hopes
were disappointed. Some have suggested that he was a stooge for the hard-
liners all along, but it is more plausible that he was just a bit too nice for pol-
itics—too unwilling, at the crucial moment in the summer of 2000, to risk a
confrontation with the hard-liners that could have turned violent.
One question in Iranian foreign policy that always lurked in the back-
ground through this period was that of a resumption of diplomatic relations
between Iran and the United States. On several occasions President
Khatami made statements that seemed to suggest an openness to renewed
contact with the United States, notably in an interview with Christiane
Amanpour of CNN, broadcast in January 1998.29 But it appeared that a
block on renewed relations with America, like Iran’s hostile attitude toward
Israel, was a shibboleth the hard-line elements in the Iranian regime were
unwilling to discard—a sign of keeping faith with the revolution. Some in-
ternational commentators speculated that after the improvement of
UK/Iran relations in the autumn of 1998, Britain would act as an honest
broker between Iran and the United States, but this did not happen. It was
difficult too for the U.S. government to make a serious effort at rapproche-
ment, though President Bill Clinton and Secretary of State Madeleine Al-
bright made a number of conciliatory statements in 1999 and 2000.
The murders of writers and dissidents in November and December
1998—events that became known afterward as the serial murders—were
widely seen as an attempt by operatives within the MOIS to confront and
discredit President Khatami. The victims included Dariush Foruhar, his
wife Parvaneh, and other veterans of the initial phase of the revolution. One
version of events says that Khatami was brought a tape that recorded a tele-
phone call in which the killers—with Parvaneh audible in the back-
ground—had asked their bosses what they should do about her, because her
husband was already dead. When Khatami successfully faced down that
confrontation and secured the arrest of Saeed Emami and some of the other
perpetrators, following up with a purge of the MOIS, many judged that he
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had strengthened both his own position and the reform process. But the ar-
rests were followed by the detention of thirteen Jews in Shiraz on espionage
charges, and again it seemed that disgruntled MOIS officials had arrested
innocent people in order to portray the organization as bravely resisting
some kind of Zionist plot. The arrests also had the effect of further embar-
rassing Khatami’s efforts at international rapprochement. MOIS claimed at
the time that a number of Muslims (nine, eight, three, or two according to
different statements) had been arrested in connection with the same case.
But details were hazy, and it seems that this was a screen to disguise the
anti-Semitic aspect of the action. Eventually all the Jews were released, but
some had been convicted in the interim of spying for Israel (for which the
penalty can be death), and some of the releases were only on a provisional
basis. That meant that the men might be rearrested should the MOIS find
that convenient.
The question of the detainees and their uncertain future attracted re-
newed criticism of Iran and Iran’s human rights record internationally. It
also threw into harsh relief the situation of Jews in the Islamic republic.
While there are still more Jews in Iran than anywhere else in the Middle
East apart from Israel, it has been estimated that when Israel was estab-
lished in 1948, there were at least 100,000 Jews living in Iran. By 1979, there
were 80,000, and today estimates vary between 25,000 and 35,000.30 This
decline is mainly explained by the emigration of Iranian Jews to Israel and
the United States especially. Plainly, there were both pull and push factors
involved in that emigration, but the rate of emigration accelerated rapidly af-
ter 1979. After the revolution, in accordance with the Islamic injunction to
protect the People of the Book, Khomeini held meetings with Jewish repre-
sentatives and decreed that Jews should be protected. The constitution gave
the Jewish community a fixed representation of one deputy in the Majles
(the Armenian Christians and Zoroastrians are treated in a similar way, ex-
cept that the Armenians have two deputies). Some of the stipulations in
traditional shari‘a law about the inferior legal status of Jews and other non-
Muslims have been changed to make their treatment more equal, but many
unequal distinctions remain. These include the rule that a convert to Islam
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inherits everything when a relative dies, while other claimants who do not
convert get nothing. Under the Islamic republic the old anti-Semitism of
some has simply dressed itself in anti-Zionist clothes (notwithstanding that
many ordinary Iranians feel genuine indignation at Israel’s treatment of the
Palestinians). Many Jews feel that the political anti-Zionism of the regime
has made anti-Semitism respectable, in the newspapers and in petty acts of
persecution—for example, demands that Jews donate to anti-Zionist
causes. The Jewish community generally survives, as at other times in the
past, by making themselves unobtrusive and avoiding trouble. Given the an-
cient history of the Jews in Iran, and their rich and unique Iranian Jewish
culture, this is a sad situation. In the United States and Israel, many Iranian
Jewish families still uphold Iranian traditions—the celebration of Noruz,
for example—and still speak Persian.
The position of the Baha’is has been worse, and many Baha’is have been
imprisoned and executed since 1979 (one accusation leveled at them is that
they have Zionist connections). Baha’is have been subject to intimidation
and arrest, and to forced conversion. Having banned them from attending
university as Baha’is, agents of the regime subsequently attacked those who
had set up and participated in Baha’i study circles.
Although some in the West were disillusioned when President Khatami
sided with the hard-line leadership in the summer of 1999 and let them
break up student protests, it seemed that many Iranians agreed with him
that evolutionary change was better than runaway violence. There was good
reason to think he was right: after the experience of one revolution, it was
understandable that Khatami and many other Iranians were unwilling to
risk their hopes for change on the outcome of street violence.31 Through all
this period, the vigor of the expanded free press in Iran encouraged the be-
lief that reform would prevail.
With the election of the strongly reformist sixth Majles in May 2000
(reform-oriented candidates secured 190 seats out of 290), many observers
thought the reformers were at last in the driver’s seat. Some people specu-
lated that Iran might now move in the direction of a moderated form of
religious supremacy, with the clerical element in the system guiding occa-
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sionally from the background, rather than taking a direct role as it had since
1979. But in retrospect, it seems that the attacks on former President Raf-
sanjani in that election campaign were a decisive error by the reformist
press, in which they overreached themselves and drove an embittered Raf-
sanjani, who had previously tried rather ineffectually to arbitrate between
the two camps, over to the hard-line side. Beginning in the summer of 2000,
hard-line resistance to the reformist program stiffened and became more
competent, perhaps reflecting Rafsanjani’s advice. A sustained and targeted
series of arrests and closures brought the flowering of the free press to an
end.32 Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei intervened personally to
prevent the new Majles from overturning the press law that facilitated this
crackdown (passed by the previous Majles in the last months of its term).
And the Majles generally found themselves blocked by hard-line elements in
the Iranian system from making any significant progress with the reform
program. If ever Khatami missed the chance to confront the hard-line lead-
ership over his popular mandate for reform—a confrontation that was
probably unavoidable if the reform project was to succeed—this was surely
the time. But the moment passed, the free press faded, and the hard-line
party regained confidence. The testing of the Shahab III medium-range
missile in July 2000 also marked a new phase of sharpened international
concern over Iranian weapons programs and nuclear ambitions.
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9
From Khatami to
Ahmadinejad, and the
Iranian Predicament
Since 1979, Iran has followed a lonely path of resistance to the global influ-
ence of Western values—particularly that of the United States. One could
see this as a reflection of the Iranians’ continuing sense of their uniqueness
and cultural significance. The Iranian revolution in 1979 was the harbinger
of Islamic revival more widely, showing that previous assumptions about the
inevitability of development on a Western model in the Middle East and
elsewhere had been misguided. As often before, others followed, for better
or worse, where Iran had led. Some hoped in the late 1990s that the
Khatami reform movement might show the way out of Islamic extremism at
the other end, but although there is good evidence that Iranians are today
more skeptical of religious leadership and more inclined to secularism than
283
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most other nationalities in the Middle East,1 that hope appears, at least for
the moment, to have been premature.
The failure of the West fully to take advantage of the opportunity offered
by a reformist president in Iran already looks like a bad mistake. One such
opportunity came after the September 11, 2001, attacks in the United States
when members of the Iranian leadership (not just Khatami, but also
Khamenei) condemned the terrorist action in forthright terms, and ordi-
nary Iranians showed their sympathies with candlelit vigils in the streets of
Tehran—more evidence of the marked difference of attitude between Irani-
ans and other Middle Eastern peoples. Another opportunity came after Iran
gave significant help to the coalition forces against the Taliban later in 2001,
helping to persuade the Northern Alliance to accept democratic arrange-
ments for post-Taliban Afghanistan.2 In 2002 Iranians were rewarded with
President George W. Bush’s “Axis of Evil” speech, which lumped Iran with
Iraq and North Korea. Finally, the Bush administration ignored an Iranian
offer in the spring of 2003 (shortly after the fall of Baghdad), via the Swiss,
for bilateral talks toward a Grand Bargain that appeared to promise a possi-
ble resolution of the nuclear issue and de facto Iranian recognition of Israel.
The purpose of all this is not to reinforce the cringing sense of guilt that
bedevils many Western observers who look at the Middle East. It is not All
Our Fault, and no doubt if the Iranians had been in the position of strength
that Britain was between 1815 and 1950, or that the United States has been
in since then, they would have behaved as badly, and quite possibly worse.
The Iranians also missed opportunities for rapprochement in the Khatami
years. But too often we have gotten things wrong, and that has had a cost. It
is important to see events from an Iranian perspective, to see how we got
things wrong, and to see what needs to be done in order to get them right.
The most important thing is this: if we make commitments and assert cer-
tain principles, we must be more careful to mean what we say and to uphold
those principles.
The Iranian reaction after 9/11 shows in high relief the apparent paradox
in Iranian attitudes to the West, in general, and to the United States, in par-
ticular. As we have seen, Iranians have real historical grounds for resentment
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 285
that are unique to Iran and that go beyond the usual postures of nationalism
and anti-Americanism. But among many ordinary Iranians there is also a
liking and respect for Europeans and Americans that goes well beyond what
one finds elsewhere in the Middle East. To some extent this is again a func-
tion of the Iranians’ sense of their special status among other Middle East-
ern nations. Plainly, different Iranians combine these attitudes in different
ways, but the best way to explain this paradox is perhaps to say that many
Iranians (irrespective of their attitude to their own government, which they
may also partly blame for the situation) feel snubbed, abused, misunder-
stood, and let down by the Westerners they think should have been their
friends. This emerges in different ways—including in the rhetoric of poli-
tics, as is illustrated by a passage from a televised speech by Supreme Leader
Khamenei on June 30, 2007:
Why, you may ask, should we adopt an offensive stance? Are we at war with the
world? No, this is not the meaning. We believe that the world owes us some-
thing. Over the issue of the colonial policies of the colonial world, we are owed
something. As far as our discussions with the rest of the world about the status
of women are concerned, the world is indebted to us. Over the issue of provok-
ing internal conflicts in Iran and arming with various types of weapons, the
world is answerable to us. Over the issue of proliferation of nuclear weapons,
chemical weapons and biological weapons, the world owes us something.3
The troubled course of the relationship between Iran and the West has
entered a new and more confrontational phase under President Ahmadine-
jad. His June 2005 election campaign was successful because, with the orga-
nizational backing of the Pasdaran, he articulated the discontent of the
poor and the urban unemployed, manipulating yet again Shi‘a indignation
at the arrogance of power. His opponent in the final stage of the election
was former President Hashemi Rafsanjani, who for many Iranians repre-
sented the worst of the corrupt cronyism of the regime. But many voted for
Ahmadinejad simply because for once they had a chance to vote for some-
one who was not a mullah. Most foreign observers, often unduly influenced
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cused of trying to destabilize the new Iraqi government. But why would Iran
wish to do that when Iraqi Shi‘as sympathetic to Iran are running that gov-
ernment already? Like the capture of the British sailors and marines in the
spring of 2007, Iranian involvement in Iraq is better explained not as aggran-
dizement aimed at any other outcome, but rather as a reminder from the
Iranians to the United States and Britain that Iran has permanent interests
on her borders. The Iranian regime, as pragmatism would suggest, has al-
ways insisted on its desire for stability in both Iraq and Afghanistan.
It does not look like a good time, with Ahmadinejad in power, for the
West to attempt a rapprochement with Iran. But willy-nilly, the United
States and Britain need Iranian help in Iraq and Afghanistan, and in the re-
gion in general. This is a simple reflection of the fact that Iran is a perma-
nent and important presence in the Middle East, and that Iran has been the
prime beneficiary of the removal of the Taliban and Saddam, Iran’s former
enemies. The present government of Iran is far from perfect, but there are
other governments in the Middle East that are as bad or worse—on democ-
racy or human rights—whom we have few scruples about describing as
close allies. If we can deal respectfully with Iran as a partner and an equal—
and not merely, as too often in the past, as an instrument to short-term ends
elsewhere—we might be surprised at how far even the current hard-line
regime would go in taking up the partnership. Then we would see the bene-
ficial effects a better relationship could have within Iran. The Iranian leader-
ship is not just Ahmadinejad, and his leverage in the Iranian system is less
than it appears. The wider leadership circle—those who coordinate deci-
sions in the Supreme National Security Council—is substantially the same
as it was in 2003, when it authorized the Grand Bargain offer.
There are many bleak aspects to the current situation in Iran. The arrests
of women and visiting academics in the spring of 2007 were yet another ret-
rograde step. Arrests to enforce the dress code (which relaxed significantly in
the Khatami period) and prevent so-called immorality in public, such as a
couple holding hands or kissing, intensified at the same time.10 Khatami’s
purge of the MOIS has been reversed and many of those suspected of com-
plicity in the serial murders of 1998 have returned. Peaceful demonstrations
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are broken up and demonstrators arrested and held for extended periods. It
is sad beyond words that the president of a country with such a diverse and
profound intellectual heritage—and such an ancient and important Jewish
presence—should seek to make a splash with a conference for an interna-
tional rag bag of wild-eyed Holocaust deniers and an exhibition of offensive
and inane cartoons. But the propensity of the Iranian regime to Holocaust
denial did not begin with Ahmadinejad, just as Iranian support for Hamas
and Hezbollah, and their attacks on Israel, goes back many years. Ah-
madinejad’s call for Israel to be wiped off the map—or according to a more
precise translation, “erased from the page of time”—was foolish and irre-
sponsible.11 His position on the problem of Israel and the Palestinians—
that Israel was created for European Jews as a manifestation of European
guilt after the Nazi Holocaust, and that the Israelis should go back to Eu-
rope—was ignorant and crass. The Jews of Israel came from a wide variety
of countries over a long period, including large numbers in the last two de-
cades from the former Soviet Union. Plainly the shock of the Holocaust was
one factor in the establishment of Israel, but so too was the poor position of
Jews in Islamic countries at that time. In the years immediately after the es-
tablishment of the state of Israel in 1948, roughly equal numbers came from
Islamic countries on the one hand, and from Europe on the other (includ-
ing, for example, around 260,000 from Morocco, 129,290 from Iraq, 29,295
from Egypt, 229,779 from Romania, 156,011 from Poland, and 11,552 from
Germany in the period 1948–195512). Of course, many tens of thousands of
Iranian Jews went to Israel in those years also. In that period Jews in the
Middle East, just as much as the Jews of Europe, were seeking a country in
which they could be masters of their own destiny—in which they could re-
sist persecution with their own means, as opposed to hoping uncertainly for
the friendly intervention of non-Jewish state powers, as had always been the
case in the Diaspora. Anti-Semitism had not been just a European phenom-
enon, and in some degree the present problem of relations between Muslims
in the Middle East and Israelis is merely a transformed and relocated ver-
sion of the old problem of how the majority of Islamic peoples of the Mid-
dle East related to the minority of Jews (and other dhimmis) in their midst.
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Notwithstanding the real need for a solution to the suffering of the Pales-
tinians, for Ahmadinejad to expect the Israelis to return to their former sta-
tus as second-class citizens and victims in the Middle East is unrealistic
political posturing.
fixed, determined aim. If Iran were able to normalize its relations with the
United States, remove the threat of regime change, and obtain even a limited
version of the sort of security guarantees U.S. allies enjoy, the perceived need
for a nuclear weapon capability would be much reduced, if not removed al-
together. That may be part of the significance of the Grand Bargain offer of
2003. Either way, the United States should at least attempt to resolve the
problem in this way before seriously considering military action. It should
always be a principle to exhaust diplomacy before contemplating an act of
war. That is the minimum that the soldiers and civilians who might die in
the event of war have a right to expect of their governments. U.S./Iranian
diplomacy has barely yet begun. It may be that after the National Intelli-
gence Estimate of November 2007, and the revelation it contained, that the
U.S. intelligence agencies collectively believed that Iran had halted its nu-
clear weapon program in 2003, negotiation toward a normalization of rela-
tions may have become a little easier. At least the danger of conflict appears
for the moment to have receded.
Hollywood-style film romances that never get an outing in the West. But
this cinema nonetheless shows the enduring greatness, the potential, the
confidence, and the creative power of Iranian thought and expression.
Iran and Persian culture have been hugely influential in world history. Re-
peatedly, what Iran has thought today, the rest of the world (or significant
parts of it) has believed tomorrow. At various stages Iran has truly been an
Empire of the Mind, and in a sense it is still—Iranian culture continues to
hold together an ethnically and linguistically diverse nation. Iran is poised
now to take on a bigger role in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the region generally
than it has taken for many years. But is Iran an empire of the future? In
other words, can Iran take the role of importance and influence in the Mid-
dle East and the wider world that is her due?
This has to be considered doubtful. One element of the doubt is whether
the wider world community will allow Iran that role. But another doubt, the
main doubt, is whether today’s Iran, governed by a narrow and self-serving
clique, is capable of that wider role. In the past, at its best, Iran attained a po-
sition of influence by fostering and celebrating her brightest and best
minds—by facing complexity honestly, with tolerance, and by developing
principles to deal with it. Today Iran is ruled by merely cunning minds,
while the brightest and best emigrate or are imprisoned, or stay mute out of
fear. A generation of the best-educated Iranians in Iran’s history have grown
up (more than half of them women) only to be intimidated and gagged.
Iran’s international position has been one of extreme isolation for over
twenty years, and when one of Iran’s sharpest and most humane minds,
Shirin Ebadi, won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2003, the enthusiasm with
which she was feted in the wide world contrasted dismally with the way she
was ignored by the Iranian government on her return. Since 1979 Iran has
challenged the West, and Western conceptions of what civilization should
be. That might have been praiseworthy in itself, had it not been for the suf-
fering and oppression, the dishonesty and disappointment that followed.
Could Iran offer more than that? Iran could, and should.
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Epilogue
Since the early editions of this book appeared in late 2007 and early 2008,
Iran has seldom been out of the news. Concern over Iran’s nuclear program
has been a constant factor, but other Iran-related developments have dis-
placed that question from the news agenda.
Policy toward Iran was an important feature of the U.S. presidential
election campaign that culminated in November 2008 with the election of
President Barack Obama. It was clear throughout that campaign, and even
during the nomination contest between Obama and Hillary Clinton that
preceded it, that there would be a change of approach toward Iran if a
Democratic administration took office. But even the Bush administration,
as if recognizing against its instincts the hard realities of the situation,
seemed to moderate its attitude toward Iran in its last months, airing the
possibility of direct U.S.-Iran talks and even the restoration of diplomatic
relations at some level. In the course of the nomination campaign, there were
signs that an Obama administration might be more disposed to negotiation
with Iran than a Clinton administration would—notably when Hillary
Clinton dropped into a television interview the comment that the United
States “would be able to totally obliterate” Iran in the event of an Iranian
nuclear attack on Israel.1
295
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 296
296 Epilogue
The election of President Obama created a new predicament for the rul-
ing group in Iran. His early declarations of openness to direct talks with the
Iranians, his preparedness to speak of the Islamic Republic as such rather
than in circumlocutory terms that avoided appearing to recognize the nature
of the regime, as previous administrations had done, and his intelligently
crafted Noruz message in March 20092 challenged the stale rhetoric of the
Iranian regime and forced them to contemplate a change in their own poli-
cies of intransigence. But both sides knew that little could be expected to
shift in the U.S.-Iran relationship in advance of the Iranian presidential elec-
tions scheduled for June 2009. Many observers both outside Iran and within
the country hoped that the elections would produce an Iranian leader with a
new, positive outlook to complement Obama’s, permitting some real
progress at long last.
It was not to be. Once again, the Iranian presidential elections produced a
surprise—all the more so because this time the surprise was of a different
order altogether from the surprises of past elections. In 1997 and in 2005,
surprise outsiders had won the elections. This time the surprise was in the
conduct of the elections themselves, which led to weeks of demonstrations
and unrest of an intensity not seen since the revolution of 1978–1979.
In the last week before election day on June 12, many observers thought
they discerned a growing wave of enthusiasm for the leading opposition can-
didate, Mir-Hosein Mousavi. Mousavi had served as defense minister during
the Iran-Iraq war, but like Khatami before him, he appeared to have neither
the track record nor at first the charisma of someone likely to shake the foun-
dations of the state. The perception of a developing movement behind
Mousavi was reinforced by early indications of a high turnout, suggesting
that pro-reform voters who had boycotted the elections in 2005 had turned
out to vote this time. But although the votes, when they were counted, cer-
tainly showed a high turnout—eighty-five percent—they gave Ahmadinejad
a whopping sixty-three percent of the vote: well over the fifty percent thresh-
old needed to win the vote outright (less than fifty percent would have meant
a second round of voting, with a run-off between the two candidates who
had won most votes in the first round).
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Epilogue 297
298 Epilogue
It seems that the ruling clique became increasingly concerned that the elec-
tions might develop a bandwagon effect comparable to that which resulted
with the election of President Khatami in 1997—an outcome they were de-
termined to avoid. One version says that the government conducted a secret
poll that showed an outright win for Mousavi. Several reports purporting to
come from dissidents in the Interior Ministry alleged that reformist-oriented
staff were purged and swiftly replaced by Ahmadinejad’s supporters, who set
about a plan to falsify the results. There were a number of suggestions that
the cleric most closely associated with Ahmadinejad—Ayatollah Mesbah
Yazdi—had issued a ruling that all means were legitimate to ensure the con-
tinuation of the prevailing form of Islamic government.
There is little doubt that many voters turned out for Ahmadinejad on
June 12. The usual judgment is that his support was strongest in the coun-
tryside and in the more remote parts of Iran. Voters who distrusted both the
regime and the perceived urban sophistication of the opposition candidates
may still have voted for Ahmadinejad because unlike other politicians, he
looked and sounded like them—they understood him and felt they could
trust him in spite of his failure to reverse worsening economic conditions
and standards of living in his first term. Many Iranians supported his strong
stance against the west and in favor of Iran’s right to a civil nuclear program.
In the countryside it was also easier for the regime to coerce voters—
whether by increases in salaries just before the election, or by threats. But
one should not go too far (as some have) in characterizing the elections as a
confrontation between an urbanized, westernized, vocal minority versus a
relatively silent, rural majority. The population of Iran in 2009 was more than
sixty percent urban. It seems unlikely that more voted for Ahmadinejad in
2009 than did in 2005, when his opponent was Rafsanjani. One Western
reporter, who went out of her way to speak to working-class Ahmadinejad
supporters, found some that would be vocal in his support, only to whisper
“Mousavi” to her afterward.3
Whatever the truth of what happened—it may never be fully known—
there was an immediate and strong reaction. Thousands of Iranians turned
out on the streets of Tehran and other cities to protest, wearing scarves or
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Epilogue 299
bandanas in green, the color of the Mousavi campaign. Within a few days,
the number of protestors had grown to hundreds of thousands, with esti-
mates saying a million on Monday, June 15. Their numbers and their diverse
origins belied the thought that this was merely sour grapes from an isolated
group, disappointed that the result had gone against them. European and
U.S. news media reported excitedly that these were the biggest demonstra-
tions in Iran since the revolution. In the evenings, Iranians gathered on
rooftops to shout “Allahu Akbar,” as they had in 1978–1979.
Over the first weekend of demonstrations, Ahmadinejad referred to the
demonstrators as Khas o Khashak, dust and trash or flotsam and jetsam, that
would be swept away. But the demonstrations did not go away. Despite beat-
ings and arrests, and despite efforts by the regime to prevent any reporting
of the protests, they continued, and Iranians found ways to get reporting out
of Iran, including through new Internet channels like Facebook and Twitter.
On the evening of June 20, a young woman called Neda Agha-Soltan got
out of her car, which was obstructed by the protesting crowds on Kargar Av-
enue in central Tehran, to escape the heat. She was accompanied by her
middle-aged music teacher. Soon afterward, she was shot in the chest and
despite the efforts of those around her, including a doctor, to staunch the
flow of blood, she was dead within a few minutes. Bystanders filmed the
event on mobile telephones, and the images went around the world on
YouTube. Neda became a symbol of the protests and of the brutality of the
regime’s conduct (their spokesmen later claimed that she had been shot by
the CIA or other foreigners). Despite the dwindling of the street protests in
later weeks, under pressure from the police and the Basij militia, demonstra-
tors turned out again in large numbers on July 30, the fortieth day after her
death, to protest against the shooting.4 There were demonstrations again on
September 18, when the regime attempted to hold its usual event (Qods
day—Jerusalem day) to show support for the Palestinians against Israel.
Opposition demonstrators, making use of the fact that the color used to
symbolize the Palestinian cause, like that of the Mousavi campaign, was
green, appeared again en masse, took over the event and shouted down the
official slogans.
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300 Epilogue
Some Western commentators said or wrote that the outcome of the elec-
tions was immaterial because there was little to choose between the policy
intentions of the two main protagonists, Mousavi and Ahmadinejad. That
missed the point. Mousavi and his reformist supporters were not looking to
overturn the Islamic republic, but what had happened was no less important
for the fact that they were not following a Western-inspired agenda. By rig-
ging the elections (as was widely believed to have happened), the regime had
gone much further than ever before in subverting the representative element
in the Iranian constitution and had thereby precipitated a crisis over the very
nature of the Islamic republic. Important figures like former presidents Raf-
sanjani and Khatami were openly critical of what had happened. The oppo-
sition candidates Mousavi and Karrubi (the latter a more longstanding and
more radical figure in reformist politics than Mousavi) refused to be si-
lenced. The Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei was forced to take a more parti-
san position than ever before, abandoning the notion that his office put him
above day-to-day politics. The demonstrators rewarded him with the chant
“marg bar diktatur” (“death to the dictator”). There is a widespread perception
that his position has been weakened.
Ever since the revolution, the Islamic principle and the constitutional, re-
publican, democratic principle had worked uneasily together, and the demo-
cratic element had been eroded. But now those who had cherished the
representative strand, who had believed that had been one of the achieve-
ments of the revolution, and that its survival gave some hope for renewal and
peaceful change, were faced with the bald fact that it had been snatched
away. They were now being ruled under the threat of naked force, under the
aegis of a ruling group whose claim to Islamic legitimacy had worn very
thin. Several leading clerics were critical of the conduct of the elections, and
others stayed pointedly silent. The crisis was not just a confrontation be-
tween the regime and a section of the populace; it was also a crisis within the
regime itself. At the time of writing (November 2009), it is still not resolved.
In the meantime, the regime blamed Western governments for instigating
the demonstrations, presenting the Obama administration with a sharpened
dilemma: should America pursue its policy of détente with a regime that
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Epilogue 301
had just, in the judgment of many of its own citizens, stolen an election in
such a bare-faced manner? But the logic of engagement with Iran had not
depended upon the virtue or otherwise of the Iranian regime, and Obama
continued his cautious attempts to engage with the Iranians. This was de-
spite revelations in the autumn that showed that the Iranian government
had been constructing a further uranium enrichment facility near Qom and
was conducting new missile tests.
The elections and their aftermath further strengthened the position of the
Revolutionary Guard corps—Sepah-e Pasdaran. Their close relationship with
President Ahmadinejad was well-known, and there were many reports (as in
2005) of their engagement in the election campaign in his interest, but the
regime’s dependence on them to face down opposition and keep the ruling
group in power was only intensified by the outcome of June 12. The role of the
Revolutionary Guard in every aspect of Iranian life, and especially in the econ-
omy, had been increasing and strengthening for many years. It was empha-
sized further in October 2009 when a company linked to the Pasdaran paid
the equivalent of $8 billion (U.S.) for a controlling share in the state telecom-
munications monopoly. The country was looking more and more like a mili-
tary dictatorship—a tighter and more effective version of what the revolution
had brought down in 1979. After the June 12 elections, Ayatollah Montazeri
commented,“What we have is not Islamic republic but military republic”5 (the
increasing prominence of clerics like Montazeri in the opposition to the
regime is another significant phenomenon in the aftermath of June 12—some
of the issues involved were discussed on pages 273–274 in chapter 8).
Despite this gloom, the elections also showed the continuing commit-
ment of young Iranians (despite previous indications of nihilism and de-
spair) to the principles of justice and constitutional government, in an
Iranian Islamic context, that their predecessors had been struggling for
since 1906. There is no reason to think that they are going to give up on
those principles. The even longer history of the profound Iranian distaste
for unjust and oppressive rulers, some of which has been traced in this
book, gives hope that they will ultimately prevail.
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Notes
303
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6. Though in the earliest times Ahriman’s direct opponent was Spenta Mainyu—
Bounteous Spirit—rather than Ahura Mazda, who was represented as being above the
conflict.
7. Boyce, Zoroastrianism, 8.
8. Bausani, Religion in Iran, 53.
9. The late Mary Boyce believed that Zoroastrianism became better known to the Jews
after the end of the Achaemenid Empire, through these diaspora communities (Boyce,
Zoroastrianism, 11).
10. See Richard C. Foltz, Spirituality in the Land of the Noble: How Iran Shaped the World’s
Religions (Oxford, UK: Oneworld, 2004), 45–53, and Edwin Yamauchi, Persia and the Bible
(Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1990), 463–464, for a counter to the Boyce thesis.
11. Daniel D. Luckenbill, Ancient Records of Assyria and Babylonia (London: Histories and
Mysteries of Man, 1989), 115–120.
12. James Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament with
Supplement, 3rd ed. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1969), 316.
13. Patricia Crone, “Zoroastrian Communism,” in Comparative Studies in Society and
History 36 ( July 1994): 460.
14. Maria Brosius, Women in Ancient Persia, 559–331 BC (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1998), 198–200 and passim.
15. Olmstead, 66–68, quoting later Greek sources.
16. Alessandro Bausani, The Persians (London: Book Club Associates, 1975), 20.
17. Josef Wiesehöfer, Ancient Persia (London: I. B. Tauris, 2006), 33 and 82. An
alternative reading of the evidence would be that Darius murdered the real Bardiya (and
possibly his brother Cambyses before him) to gain the throne. He then had to crush a
series of loyalist rebellions and concoct a cover story.
18. Ibid., 67–69.
19. Alexandra Villing, “Persia and Greece,” in Forgotten Empire: The World of Ancient
Persia (London: I. B. Tauris, 2005), 236–249.
20. See Villing, 230–231.
21. Olmstead, 519–520.
22. Boyce, A History of Zoroastrianism, 78–79.
26. Also Sprach Zarathustra: “wenn ich frohlockend sass, wo alte Götter begraben liegen,
weltsegnend, weltliebend neben den Denkmalen alter Weltverleumder”—“if ever I sat rejoicing where
old gods lay buried, world-blessing, world-loving, beside the monuments of old world-slanderers.”
27. “Shapur I,” in Encyclopedia Iranica.
28. Daryaee, Sasanian Persia.
29. Bausani, Religion in Iran, 11–13. See page 15 for Bausani’s explanation of the later
redaction of the Zoroastrian Pahlavi texts in the ninth century.
30. “The Sassanids,” in Encyclopedia Iranica; Ammianus Marcellinus, vol. 2, 457–503,
Loeb Classics.
31. Ibid.; Daryaee, Sasanian Persia.
32. Ibid.
33. Crone, 448. She considered the religious movement to be a life-affirming reaction to
gnosticism rather than an outgrowth of Manichaeism (461–462), and followed an
alternative chronology of events that set the death of Mazdak after Khosraw’s accession to
the throne. Many aspects of the Mazdak episode are disputed.
34. Mohammad ibn Jarir al-Tabari, The Sasanids, the Byzantines, the Lakhmids, and Yemen,
vol. 5 of History of al-Tabari, edited and translated by C. E. Bosworth (Albany: State
University of New York Press), 135 and note. The story also appears in Western accounts,
but some of them give the woman as Kavad’s wife.
35. Wiesehöfer, 190.
36. Bausani, Religion in Iran, 101.
37. Ibid., 100; Daryaee, Sasanian Persia.
38. Al-Tabari, 149.
39. Edward Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (London:
Printed by A. Strahan for T. Cadell and W. Davies, 1802), vol. 7, 149–151 (the passage
draws on the Byzantine historian Agathias).
40. “The Sassanids,” in Encyclopedia Iranica.
41. Steven Runciman, A History of the Crusades (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991), 10–11.
42. “The Sassanids,” in Encyclopedia Iranica.
Jews of Arab Lands: A History and Source Book (Philadelphia: Jewish Publications Society,
1979), 11–16.
3. See Abdelwahab Bouhdiba, Sexuality in Islam (New York: Routledge, 1985),19–20
and passim.
4. See for example Ira M. Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2002), 30.
5. Richard N. Frye, The Golden Age of Persia: The Arabs in the East (London: Weidenfeld
and Nicolson, 1975), 64–65.
6. Aptin Khanbaghi, The Fire, the Star and the Cross: Minority Religions in Medieval and
Early Modern Iran (London: I. B. Tauris, 2006), 25.
7. Bausani, Religion in Iran, 118.
8. Ibid., 111–121.
9. Ibid., 111; for the changes after the conquest see The Cambridge History of Iran: From
the Arab Invasion to the Saljuq, vol. 4 (London: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 40–48.
10. Ibid., 63–64.
11. Hugh Kennedy, The Court of the Caliphs (London: Phoenix, 2005), 134–136.
12. Ehsan Yarshater, “The Persian Presence in the Islamic World,” in The Persian
Presence in the Islamic World, Richard Hovannasian and Georges Sabagh, eds. (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998), 70–71.
13. Frye, The Golden Age of Persia, 122–123; Bausani, Religion in Iran, 143.
14. Bausani, The Persians, 84–85.
15. Mehdi Nakosteen, History of the Islamic Origins of Western Education, AD 800–1350
(Boulder: University of Colorado Press, 1964), 20–27.
16. Quoted in Frye, The Golden Age of Persia, 150.
17. Bausani, Religion in Iran, 121–130; see also Khanbaghi, 20–27.
18. Quoted in Crone, 450.
19. Persian transliterated from Reza Saberi, A Thousand Years of Persian Rubaiyat: An
Anthology of Quatrains from the Tenth to the Twentieth Century Along with the Original Persian
(Bethesda, MD: Ibex Publishers, 2000), 20; for the translation I am grateful to Hashem
Ahmadzadeh and Lenny Lewisohn for their help. The selection of poetry that follows here
is a personal one and includes a disproportionate number of rubaiyat—largely because the
quatrain form is shorter than the other main verse forms and enabled me to incorporate
more poetry from a variety of poets in a short space, and to include the original Persian.
20. Jerome Clinton, “A Comparison of Nizami’s Layli and Majnun and Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet,” in The Poetry of Nizami Ganjavi: Knowledge, Love and Rhetoric, K. Talattof
and J. Clinton, eds. (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2000), xvii.
21. Ibid., 72–73.
22. Idries Shah, The Sufis (London: Octagon Press, 1964), xiv.
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23. A. J. Arberry, Classical Persian Literature (London: George Allen/Ruskin House, 1958),
67.
24. Mehdi Aminrazavi, The Wine of Wisdom: The Life, Poetry and Philosophy of Omar
Khayyam (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2007), 25–27.
25. Ibid., 199–200.
26. Saberi, 75; translation by Axworthy, Ahmadzadeh, and Lewisohn. There are examples
of quatrains where Fitzgerald took greater liberties with the originals.
27. Aminrazavi, 131–133; Ehsan Yarshater, ed., Persian Literature (New York: Bibliotheca
Persica Press, 1988), 148–150.
28. Saberi, 78; translation by Axworthy, Ahmadzadeh, and Lewisohn.
29. A. J. Arberry, The Ruba‘iyat of Omar Khayyam: Edited from a Newly Discovered Manuscript
Dated 658 (1259–60) in the Possession of A. Chester Beatty Esq. (London: Emery Walker Ltd.,
1949), 14; Ahmad Saidi, ed. and trans., Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1992), 36; translation by Axworthy, Ahmadzadeh, and Lewisohn.
30. For Sufism generally, see especially Leonard Lewisohn, The Heritage of Sufism, Volume I:
Classical Persian Sufism from Its Origins to Rumi (700–1300) (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), and
Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press, 1975).
31. Lewisohn, The Heritage of Sufism, 11–43; Marshall Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 203, 209, 213, 217–222, 293, 304.
32. The Cambridge History of Iran, Volume 5: The Saljuq and Mongol Periods (London:
Cambridge University Press, 1968), 299.
33. Arberry, Classical Persian Literature, 90–91.
34. R. Gelpke, Nizami: The Story of Layla and Majnun (Colchester: Bruno Cassirer, 1966), 168.
35. Clinton, 25.
36. Leonard Lewisohn and C. Shackle, eds., Attar and the Persian Sufi Tradition: The Art of
Spiritual Flight (London: I. B. Tauris, 2006), 255; and L. Lewisohn, “Attar, Farid al-Din,” in
Lindsay Jones, ed., Encyclopedia of Religion, 15-Volume Set (New York: MacMillan Reference
Books, 2005), 601—cf. Nietzsche: Was aus Liebe getan wird, geschieht immer jenseits von Gut
und Böse—That which is done out of love, always takes place beyond Good and Evil.
37. Farid al-Din Attar, The Conference of the Birds, Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis,
eds. and trans. (London: Penguin Classics, 1984), 57–75.
38. David Morgan, Medieval Persia 1040–1797: History of the Near East (London:
Longman Publishing Group, 1988), 88–96 and passim.
39. The Cambridge History of Iran, Volume 5, 313–314; based on John Andrew Boyle, ed.
and trans., The History of the World-Conqueror ( Juvayni) (Cambridge: Harvard University
Press, 1958), 159–162.
40. Ibid., 337.
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Early Modern Middle East: Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period (Leiden: Brill Academic
Publishers, 2003), 408.
13. See Willem Floor, Safavid Government Institutions (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda
Publishers, 2001) and Minorsky.
14. “Molla Sadra Shirazi,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica (Sajjad Rizvi). “Molla” and “Mullah”
are the same word, but I refer to Molla Sadra in this way in an attempt to distance him
from modern connotations that could be misleading.
15. Roy Mottahedeh, The Mantle of the Prophet (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1987), 179.
16. Yarshater, Persian Literature, 249–288, and, notably, the quotation from Bausani,
275.
17. Levy, 293–295; see also Eliz Sanasarian, Religious Minorities in Iran (Cambridge/New
York: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 45.
18. To get a sense of this, albeit in a description from a later period, the relationship
between the Jewish family and their village mullah in Dorit Rabinyan’s Persian Brides
(Edinburgh: George Braziller Publishers, 1998) is vivid and memorable.
19. Mottahedeh, 203. The thinker Ali Shariati (1933–1977) also attacked the Shi‘ism
of the Safavid period (Black Shiism) but arguably was addressing deficiencies of religious
practice in his own time rather than making a historical point. His priority was to
encourage a resurgence of true Shi‘ism (Red Shi‘ism)—a revolutionary Shi‘ism of social
justice—see Chapter 7.
20. See Rudolph Matthee, “Unwalled Cities and Restless Nomads: Firearms and
Artillery in Safavid Iran,” in Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society
(London: I. B. Tauris, 1996), and Michael Axworthy, “The Army of Nader Shah,” in
Iranian Studies (December 2007).
21. Matthee, The Pursuit of Pleasure, 61.
22. Ibid., 50–56.
23. Roger Savory, Iran Under the Safavids (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2007), 232.
24. Matthee, The Pursuit of Pleasure, 58–60.
25. Ibid., 91–92, 92n. The evidence comes not just from Western observers at court, but
also from Persian sources; the Shaykh ol-Eslam of Qom had the temerity to criticize the
shah’s drinking and was lucky to escape execution for it.
26. Newman, Safavid Iran, 99; “Part of this struggle for the hearts and minds of the
‘popular’ classes.”
27. See V. Moreen, “Risala-yi Sawa’iq al-Yahud [The treatise Lightning Bolts Against
the Jews] by Muhammad Baqir b. Muhammad Taqi al-Majlisi (d. 1699),” in Die Welt des
Islams 32 (1992), passim.
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28. J. Calmard, “Popular Literature Under the Safavids,” in Society and Culture in the Early
Modern Middle East: Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period (Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers,
2003), 331.
36. Laurence Kelly, Diplomacy and Murder in Tehran: Alexander Griboyedov and Imperial
Russia’s Mission to the Shah of Persia (London: Tauris Parke Paperbacks, 2006), 190–194.
37. Nikki R. Keddie, “The Iranian Power Structure and Social Change 1800–1969: An
Overview,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 2 ( January 1971): 3–4; The Cambridge
History of Iran, vol. 7, 174–181.
38. Keddie, Qajar Iran and the Rise of Reza Khan 1796–1925, 17; The Cambridge History of
Iran, vol. 7, 174.
7. Kamran Talattof, The Politics of Writing in Iran: A History of Modern Persian Literature
(Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2000), 53–62. The story that all Hedayat’s
works had been banned by Ahmadinejad was carried in the Guardian in an article by
Robert Tait on November 17, 2006, but when I visited Iran in November 2007, I was told
that only one of his works had been banned.
8. Yarshater, Persian Literature, 336–380.
9. Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 143; Katouzian, “Riza Shah’s Legitimacy
and Social Base,” 29–30.
10. Ansari, A History of Modern Iran Since 1921, 56–59.
11. Ibid., 68.
12. Katouzian, “Riza Shah’s Legitimacy and Social Base,” 26–32.
13. Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 163 (the shooting) and 158–161; Ansari,
A History of Modern Iran Since 1921, 64.
14. Ibid., 164.
15. Katouzian, “Riza Shah’s Legitimacy and Social Base,” 32–33.
16. Levy, 544–546.
17. Accessed at [Link] and [Link]/
site/apps/s/[Link]?c=fwLYKnN8LzH&b=253162&ct=285846.
18. Ansari, A History of Modern Iran Since 1921, 110.
19. Ibid., 78–85.
20. Homa Katouzian, Sadeq Hedayat: The Life and Legend of an Iranian Writer (London:
RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 13–14; Katouzian rather dryly suggests that the reorientation
would have shifted as easily in the other direction if Axis powers had occupied Iran.
21. Mottahedeh, 98–105; Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 125–126.
22. Ibid., 164.
23. Moin, 105.
24. Keddie, Modern Iran, 130; Daryiush Bayandor’s researches toward a new book on the
coup argue plausibly that the role of the secret services was rather less significant than previously
thought and that of the clergy and their bazaari supporters was rather more significant.
25. Mottahedeh, 287–323; George Morrison, ed., History of Persian Literature from the
Beginnings of the Islamic Period to the Present Day (Leiden, UK: Brill Academic Publishers,
1981), 201–202 (Kadkani); for Simin Daneshvar’s revelations, see Talattof, 160.
26. Ansari, A History of Modern Iran Since 1921, 133.
27. Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 420.
28. Issawi, 375–382.
29. Quoted in Ali Ansari, Iran, Islam and Democracy: The Politics of Managing Change
(London: Chatham House, 2000), 38–39.
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30. Keddie, Modern Iran, 145; Robert Graham, Iran: The Illusion of Power (London:
Croom Helm, 1978), 69.
31. Moin, 107–108.
32. Ibid., 123.
33. Ibid., 1–8.
34. The best account of such an education is Mottahedeh’s brilliant Mantle of the Prophet.
35. Moin, 42–44.
36. Ibid., 64.
37. Keddie, Modern Iran, 147.
38. Ibid., 152.
39. Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 535–536.
40. Keddie, Modern Iran, 158.
41. Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 430–431.
42. James A. Bill, The Eagle and the Lion: The Tregedy of American-Iranian Relations (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1988), 379–382.
43. Farah Azari, “Sexuality and Women’s Oppression in Iran,” in Women of Iran: The
Conflict with Fundamentalist Islam (London: Ithaca Press, 1983), 130–132 and passim, drew
attention to the sexual aspect of the revolution in an insightful chapter, and Mottahedeh,
273, makes a similar point.
44. Mottahedeh, 270–272.
45. Quoted in Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 419.
46. Ansari, A History of Modern Iran Since 1921, 173.
47. Bill, The Eagle and the Lion, 183–184.
48. Mottahedeh, 328.
49. For a vivid picture of the lives of the Jews of Shiraz in this period, see Laurence D.
Loeb, Outcaste: Jewish Life in Southern Iran (New York: Routledge, 1977).
50. Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 500–504.
51. Moin, 152–156.
52. Momen, 256–260.
53. Keddie, “Sayyid Jamal Al-Din Al-Afghani”, 236
54. Ibid., 208–245; Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 464–473.
55. Moin, 186.
56. This judgement is based on contributions to the Gulf 2000 Internet forum in the
spring of 2007; particularly on a contribution from Ali Sajjadi, who investigated the case
for a Radio Farda report.
57. Abrahamian, Iran Between Two Revolutions, 510–513.
58. Ibid., 519.
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26. Afsaneh Najmabadi, Women with Mustaches and Men Without Beards: Gender and
Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), gives
thought-provoking analysis on the theme of gender in Iranian history.
27. Azadeh Kian-Thiébaut, “From Motherhood to Equal Rights Advocates: The
Weakening of the Patriarchal Order,” Iranian Studies 38 (March 2005): passim.
28. Brought out most clearly in the comparative surveys carried out by Mansour
Moaddel, which also back up Kian-Thiébaut—for example, 49 percent of Iranians
surveyed believed love was more important than parental approval when marrying (41
percent thought the contrary), where in Iraq the split was 71 percent for parental approval
and 26 percent for love. In Saudi Arabia, the tallies were 50 percent for parental approval
and 48 percent for love. Surveys are accessible at [Link]/research/tmp/
moaddel_values_survey.html.
29. The interview is discussed in detail in Ansari, Iran, Islam and Democracy, 133–137.
30. Sanasarian, Religious Minorities in Iran, 47, 47n; 48, 48n. Others have suggested that
the number of Jews in 1948 may have been as high as 140,000 to 150,000.
31. Shirin Ebadi said something very much to this effect—that one revolution is
enough—in a speech she gave at the Hay-on-Wye literary festival in May 2006.
32. For discussion of the crackdown on the free press in the summer of 2000, see
Ansari, Iran, Islam and Democracy, 211–217.
2. For details of Iranian support against the Taliban, see the report from James Dobbins
(leader of the U.S. delegation to the talks in Bonn that set up the coalition), Washington
Post, July 22, 2007.
3. Translated transcript from [Link].
4. Poll by [Link]; reported to Gulf 2000 (a Web discussion forum) by Meir
Javedanfar.
5. Katouzian, Iranian History and Politics; see also Mansour Moaddel, Islamic Modernism,
Nationalism and Fundamentalism: Episode and Discourse (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2004).
6. For these, and for a brilliant snapshot of the general attitudes of at least some young
Iranians, see Nasrin Alavi, We Are Iran: The Persian Blogs (London: Portobello Books,
2005); also R. Varzi, Warring Souls: Youth, Media and Martyrdom in Post-Revolution Iran
(Durham: University of North Carolina Press, 2006).
7. One of those historical facts that modern Britons, left bereft of their own history by
their education system, often forget to remember.
8. One hundred seventy in the United States and seventeen in Britain. Figures taken
from BBC, [Link] and the Daily
Telegraph, [Link]/news/[Link]?xml=/news/2006/06/25/[Link]
&sSheet=/news/2006/06/25/[Link].
9. On July 15, 2007, the Los Angeles Times reported, on the strength of comments by
(anonymous) senior U.S. military officers, and others, that although the finger had been
pointed at Iran and Syria, the largest number (45 percent) of foreign suicide bombers and
insurgents in Iraq were from Saudi Arabia (plus 15 percent from Syria and Lebanon, and
10 percent from North Africa—figures for Iran were not given, presumably because they
were off the bottom end of the scale). Suicide attacks have systematically killed larger
numbers of civilians and soldiers in Iraq than other kinds of attacks, and they have been
predominantly, if not entirely, carried out by Sunni insurgents. The same source claimed
that 50 percent of all Saudi fighters in Iraq came there as suicide bombers. The article
commented: “The situation has left the U.S. military in the awkward position of battling
an enemy whose top source of foreign fighters is a key ally that at best has not been able to
prevent its citizens from undertaking bloody attacks in Iraq, and at worst shares complicity
in sending extremists to commit attacks against U.S. forces, Iraqi civilians and the Shiite-
led government in Baghdad.”
10. In April 2007 the Iranian Supreme Court overturned murder verdicts against a
group of Basijis convicted of killing people they regarded as immoral in the southeastern
city of Kerman (in 2002). The victims included a couple that were betrothed, who had
been abducted while on their way to view a house they had been hoping to live in together
after their marriage. The Supreme Court accepted the men’s defense that they believed
0465019205-text_Layout 1 12/28/09 5:49 PM Page 321
they had been justified (on the basis of guidance from Ayatollah Mesbah Yazdi), after
giving warnings, in killing people they regarded as immoral. It was thought that there
could have been as many as eighteen such killings in Kerman, and similar murders in
Mashhad and Tehran as well ([Link]
11. The formula had been used before by Khomeini and others, and had been translated
by representatives of the Iranian regime as “wiped off the map.” Some of the dispute that has
arisen over what exactly Ahmadinejad meant by it has been rather bogus. When the slogan
appeared draped over missiles in military parades the meaning was pretty clear. It was partly
to address Ahmadinejad’s remarks, but also because it has often been passed over, that I have
paid some moderate attention to the history of Iran’s Jews in this book.
12. Martin Gilbert, Israel: A History. (London: Black Swan, 1999), 639.
Epilogue
1. [Link]/watch?v=4u1nmGmtD18, accessed September 18, 2009.
2. [Link]/Nowruz/, accessed September 22, 2009.
3. Huria Choudhari, “Beating the Reporting Ban in Iran,” [BBC] World Agenda,
September 2009, 11.
4. [Link]/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-iran-
protests31–2009jul31,0,[Link], accessed September 10, 2009.
5. Borzou Daraghi, “Ayatollah Calls Government a Military Regime,” Los Angeles Times,
September 14, 2009.
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Index
Page locator in bold indicates map Adel Shah, 163, 165–166, 169
Adhurpat, 55
Abbas Mirza, 178, 180, 181, 184 Adhvenak, 9
Abbas the Great, 134–138, 141, 142 Adultery, stoning for, 264
Abbas II, 141, 142, 159 Afghan revolt against Safavids, 148–151
Abbasid dynasty, 77–85, 104 Al-Afghani, Jamal al-Din, 197–198
court rich and learned, 80–82 Afghanistan
as cultural reconquest of Arabs by founded by Ahmad Khan Abdali, 165–166
Persians, 78 need for Iranian help in, 289
looked back on as a golden age, 80 Afshars, 136, 151, 161
and power of governors/local dynasties, Agha Mohammad Khan (later Shah),
80, 84 169–172, 176. See also Qajar Persia
weakened by tax collecting measures, 119 Agha-Soltan, Neda, 299
Abd al-Wahhab, 175 Agricultural settlements, earliest, 2, 3
Abrahamian, Ervand, 229 Ahmad Khan Abdali (Ahmad Shah
Abu Bakr, 72 Durrani), 165–166, 216, 217, 219
Abu Muslim, 77, 128, 133 Ahmadinejad, Mahmud, 285–286, 292,
Abu’l Abbas, 77 296–301
Achaemenes, 5, 12 and denial of Holocaust, 290
Achaemenid Empire, 11, 12–16, 22, 251 leverage of in Iran less than it appears, 289
absorbed rather than destroyed culture of Ahriman, 7–8, 42, 44
rivals, 14–15, 21 Ahura Mazda, 7–8, 19, 42, 44
accession of Darius, 17–20 Aisha (wife of Mohammad), 71
Alexander’s defeat of, 28, 29 Ajam, 79
and conquest of Egypt, 17 Akhbaris, 172–173
and the Greeks, 23–26 Akhtar (newspaper), 198
and Persian wars, 23, 25, 26 Al-e Ahmad, Jalal, 238–239, 245
refounding of Empire by Darius, 20–23 Albright, Madeleine, 278
system of government under, 21–23 Alchemy of Happiness, The (al-Ghazali), 95
writing looked upon negatively, 22 Alcohol and Safavids, 141–142, 143, 152. See
See also Cyrus also Wine
Acropolis, Athenian, 25, 29 Alexander of Macedonia, 16, 28–30
333
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334 Index
Ali (fourth caliph), 76–77, 125, 126, 133 Augustine of Hippo, 51–53
American school in Tehran, 248–249 Augustus Caesar, 30
Amin od-Dowleh, 199, 200 Aurelian, Emperor, 54
Amir Kabir, 191–192, 205 Averroes, 82
Ammanpour, Christine, 278 Avesta, 5, 9, 34, 40, 55, 57, 58
Amnesty International, 250, 252 Avicenna (Ibn Sina), 81–82, 95, 138, 270
Amuzegar, Jasmshid, 253 “Axis of Evil” speech, 284
Anahita, 54 Azari, Farah, 276–277
Andragoas, 32 Azerbaijan, 205, 216, 232–233, 234, 267
Angels, 9
Anglo-Iranian Oil Company (AIOC), Babi movement and Baha’i religion, 187–189,
231–232, 239 204
Anglo-Persian Agreement of 1919, 215–216 and Mohammad Reza Shah, 251–252
Anglo-Persian Oil Company, 212, 227, 235 persecution of under Islamic Republic,
Anti-Semitism, 290 280
Antony, Mark, 38–39 and Qorrat al-Ain, 188, 189
Aq-Qoyunlu, 120–121, 130–131, 132 Babylon and Babylonians, 2, 10, 14, 25, 33
Arabic language, 81–82, 83 Bacchae, The (Euripides), 37
Arabs Baghdad, 78, 80, 90, 104
conquest of Sassanids, 72–74 Bahar, Mohammad Taqi, 139, 225–226
early conquests of, 72, 73, 75–76 Baha’uallah, 189
Aramaic language, 22, 34 Bahrain, 286
Arberry, A.J., 93, 113 Bahram Chubin, 63, 84
Arcadius, Roman Emperor, 56 Bahram V (Bahram Gur), 57–58
Architecture Bakhtiar, Shahpur, 252, 253, 261–262
influence of Persians on Abbasids, 78–79 Bakhtiari tribe, 208, 209
and Isfahan and Safavid, 136, 138, 148 El Baradei, Dr. Mohamed, 291
Parthian and ivan audience hall, 34 Bardiya, 17, 18
and Soltaniyeh, 104 Battle of Marathon, 23
Ardashir, 43–46, 47, 54–55 Bausani, Alessandro, 51, 53
Aristotelian philosophy and logic, 81–2 Bazaar and bazaari merchants, 48, 205, 227,
Armenia, 5, 54 247, 254, 274
Arsacids, 32, 43. See also Parthians Bazargan, Mehdi, 253, 257, 262, 263, 265
Arshak (Arsaces), 32 Behbehani, Aqa Mohammad Baqer, 192
Artabanus (Ardavan) IV, 43, 44 Behbehani, Ayatollah Abdollah, 200, 201,
Artaxerxes (Artakhshathra), 25 202, 203, 204, 208
Artaxerxes II & III, 26 Beheshti, Ayatollah, 266, 272
Asabiyya, 118–119, 131 Beyt al-Hikma (House of Wisdom), 81
Ashura commemorations, 125, 173–174, 175, Bidel, 115
243, 268 Bill, James A., 248
Assembly of Experts, 264 Bisitun, 17, 18–19, 20, 22, 86
Assyrians, 2, 4 Black Friday (September 8, 1978), 257
Astyages, 12 Bogomils, 52–53
Atatürk, Kemal, 222, 226, 227 Bonyad-e Mostazefin (Foundation for the
Athens, 24, 25 Oppressed), 263, 265
Attar, Farid al-Din, 97–100 Borujerdi, Ayatollah, 240, 242, 245
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Index 335
336 Index
Index 337
338 Index
Index 339
340 Index
Kimiya-ye sa’a-dat, The Alchemy of Happiness Makhmalbaf, Moshen and Samira, 293
(al-Ghazali), 95 Malcolm, John, 171, 177, 178, 196
Al-Kindi, 81 Maleki, Khalil, 238
Kingship, Sassanid concept of, 57 Malkom Khan, 195, 196
Komitehs (revolutionary committees), 262 Al-Ma’mun, 80–81
Konya, 105 Mandaeans, 50
Kuchek Khan, 212, 218 Mani, 49–51
Kuh-e Nur diamond, 158, 165 Manichaeism, 49–53, 59
Kurdish Democratic Party (KDP), 267 Al-Mansur, 79, 81
Kurds and Kurdistan, 161, 262–263 Mantiq al-tayr, The Conference of the Birds
(Attar), 97–100
Land reform, 242, 246 Marduk, 14, 25
Layla and Majnoun (Nizami Ganjavi), 96–97 Marja, 173, 207
Leonidas, 25 Marlowe, Christopher, 221
Lezges of Daghestan, 159–160, 181 Martyrdom, 267–268
Life expectancy, 276 Maryam Begum, 146, 147, 149
Literature Mashdad shrine, 137
banning of works by Hedayat, 225 Mashhad University, 255
great body had been created by fifteenth Mashruteh (constitution), 202–205, 264. See
century, 115 also Constitutional Revolution of
and shu’biyya movement, 79 1905–1911
under Reza Khan, 225–226 Masnavi of Rumi, 106
See also Poetry Massagetae, 15
Lotf Ali Khan Zand, 170–171 Maurice, Emperor, 63, 64
Love, 85, 96, 97, 98, 113, 116 Mazdaism, 7, 8, 9, 10, 15
and accession of Darius, 19–20
Macedon and Macedonians, 25, 26–30 and Ardashir, 44
Machiavelli, Niccolo, 90, 148 and Arsacids and Sassanids, 34
Macrinus, 43 becomes Zoroastrianism, 55
Madreseh tradition, 138, 140 and brotherhoods of fifteenth century,
Magi, 9, 15, 17–20, 50, 53 130
Magian wine (mey-e moghaneh), 93 codification of under Sassanids, 54–55
Mahmud Ghilzai, 150 and fire altars by Sassanids, 49
Majles or national assembly, 203–204, 206, influence on Judaism, 10
208, 211, 212, 231 and Manichaeism, 49, 50–51
and Anglo-Persian agreement of 1919, massacres at Ray and Istakhr by invading
216 Arabs, 75
attack upon by Mohammad Ali Shah, 207 and Mithraism, 41–42
blocked by hardliner elements during and Shahnameh, 86
Khatami presidency, 281 and shu’ubiyya movement, 79
and parties to support Mohammad Reza, systematic recording of texts of, 40
240, 250 See also Avesta; Zoroaster and
and Reza Khan, 219–220, 222, 224–225 Zoroastrianism
Schuster’s comments on, 210 Mazdak, 59, 60–61
and seats for minorities, 279 Mazdakism, 15, 59, 61, 83
under Khomeini constitution, 264 Mecca, 69, 70, 71, 123, 125–126
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Index 341
342 Index
Index 343
344 Index
Index 345
346 Index
Index 347
348 Index
Index 349